The cauldron effect, p.6
The Cauldron Effect, page 6
No one lingered inside. Again, to her benefit. In the northwest corner of the nave, a brownie, no more than nine inches in height, diligently swept up dust balls.
She approached the little, pointy-eared cleaner. “Excuse me, sir, but do you know where I might find the rector?”
Without turning, the brownie indicated the chancel. “He’s wi’ a guest over there,” he said with a strong Scottish brogue that rolled every “r.”
Merryn gazed down the length of the pews where, at the other end of the church, from within a hidden alcove, came soft-spoken voices. While she waited for the rector to be free, she turned back to the brownie. He might have been here when Trystan was taken.
“My name is Miss Merryn Pendraven.”
“I knows who ye’re, Lady Protectress,” the brownie said over his shoulder.
“Oh. Were you here when young Trystan came for his baptism?”
“Does I look like a clatterbags?” The brownie finally turned to face her, his pointed ears fairly twitching with visible indignation.
“The boy’s in trouble.” Merryn knelt on the floorboards. “I’m trying to find him and bring him home.”
“Oh, that be different.” Crossing one foot over the other, the brownie leaned a hand on his boom. “Shame, I thought. Waitin’ until the boy was six to baptize him. What was his parents thinkin’? An’ now he may never have the chance to receive holy protection.”
“I’m hoping to rectify that situation. If all goes well, Trystan may yet get baptized.”
“Live in dreams, do ye?”
“Do you know who took the boy?”
“Everyone kens who took him, lassie! And if ye an’ yer kin’ have any sense, ye’ll pack up yer coven and leave Callington. I mean, that there church guard speakin’ to the rector kens who ye’re. I heard him ask about ye.”
A shiver struck Merryn. Braden was here? Of course he was. On the same mission as herself. Who else would he seek out first but the man who saw the boy last? Exact reason she’d come.
“If you’re so worried about the church guard, why are you still here?” she asked, feeling defensive. “I don’t see you packing your bags to leave town.”
“We’re no part o’ yer war.” With a contemptuous look, the brownie returned to work.
“If Dewer is involved, everyone’s a part of this war,” Merryn said. “The church just hasn’t realized it yet.”
“Miss Pendraven,” the rector called as he came forward from the shadows.
Merryn stood, surreptitiously blocking the brownie from the church guard’s sight until the light fae vanished.
Beside the rector, the earl strode to greet her, interest sparking his eyes a breathtaking deep blue. Did he have to look quite so well turned out so early in the morning?
Next to his lordship’s forest-green morning coat, cream-striped waistcoat, fluffy froth of a cravat, crisp tan breeches, and spotless shining Hessians, she and the rector could have been a hag and beggar at the marketplace seeking handouts.
Braden – hat, cane, and gloves in hand – bowed. “Miss Pendraven. A pleasure.”
She curtsied. “Good morning, my lord.” Though they stood a good three feet apart, every inch of her came awake as if his presence was the morning light sweeping over her.
He leaned to the side to look beyond her. “To whom were you speaking?”
“Did it seem as if I was speaking with someone?”
“The lady was probably praying, my lord,” the rector said. “She was on her knees.”
“Facing away from the rood?” The earl’s eyebrow rose in challenge as his gaze swung from her to the cross above the rood beam that divided the nave from the chancel.
“Ah, I see where you gained the misimpression,” Merryn said, trying to think past the confused clutter of her thoughts. She gestured to a dark corner. “I saw a ball of dust.”
A fluffy bundle of dust suddenly filled her palm. Guessing at its origins, she sent a silent thank you to the brownie who put it there, and brought her right hand around to show the two men. “I bent to pick this up.”
The elderly churchman chuckled and took the globe of cobwebs and dirt off her fingers. “There never seems to be an end to the collection of dust in this old building.”
Braden’s lips curved with a hint of skepticism. “It seems as if you are ever helpful, Miss Pendraven. From rescuing troubled souls to cleaning grubby churches. Is there anything you do not play a hand in?”
Merryn returned his direct stare without blinking, her backbone as unyielding as her devotion to Cornwall, to Callington, to her coven. “It is my duty to do what I can, my lord.”
“For this place of worship?” he asked in a sharp tone, “or to elsewhere?”
“Where else would she worship but here?” the rector asked, sounding confused. “This section of Callington has but one church. We value her greatly in our little community. However, she cannot do everything. I was telling his lordship, Miss Pendraven, that the church is in desperate need of funds for renovations.”
Braden took the dust ball out of the rector’s restless fingers and studied the fluff of dirt. Then his gaze met Merryn’s. “From the little I’ve seen, Miss Pendraven, it appears the church is not the only part of Callington in need of a little celestial shine.”
Her throat clenched, blocking her airway. If lack of breathing weren’t enough to cope with, her stomach fluttered under his direct probe. A clear symptom of her continued, illogical and ill-timed attraction to this perilous man.
Despite her body’s lack of sense, she decided she no longer wished to dance with him. Not if he made a habit of destroying covens. For that made him worse than a warlock, which dug deep indeed. She forced herself to breathe, to think clearly – easier once her head stopped swimming from lack of air.
What she truly wanted was to show this upstart church guard that Callington did not require his assistance to tidy up its affairs. This town had her and that was ample.
In an act of symbolic defiance, she snatched at the dust ball Braden held in his palm. Before she could withdraw with her stolen prize, his fist clamped around her fingers.
The startlingly intimate clasp sent sparks shooting up Merryn’s arm.
Was that hum an angel singing in the rafters?
No. It must be the wind blowing through a hole in the roof. Still, she could have stood there for all eternity, letting him hold her as if she were a lover from whom he didn’t wish to part. His eyes proposed things far more pleasurable than retribution.
The rector’s hands descended on top of both of theirs, interrupting his lordship’s mesmerizing hold. Merryn breathed in relief.
“Now, now.” The rector pried their clenched fingers apart to free the dust ball crushed within. “There is plenty for all to do.”
Merryn withdrew her hand. Could that be disappointment in Braden’s eyes? Even if so, it didn’t come close to equaling the regret that swarmed her at breaking that deliciously dangerous contact.
I’m such a fool!
“We must work together,” the old churchman said. “Then what is required will be accomplished faster and easier. Do you not agree, my lord? Miss Pendraven? What we truly need is funds.”
“Perhaps,” Braden said. “Is your chaperone waiting outside for you, Miss Pendraven?” he asked, adroitly changing the subject from church finances to Merryn’s failings.
“Oh, she doesn’t need a chaperone to come to Saint Agatha, my lord,” the rector said. “Miss Pendraven lives not far from here and everyone hereabout knows her.”
“Hmmm...so it would seem,” Braden murmured. “Still, these are dangerous times. I doubt it’s safe for a young lady to walk alone. Not after the unfortunate occurrence of that boy going missing.”
“Snatched, my lord,” the rector corrected. “Not merely missing. Sad, sad event. One moment he stood before me, the next the whole church turned into bedlam. I went to see what caused the ruckus, and when I returned, the child was gone.”
“Surely his parents noticed someone taking him?” Braden asked.
“Only his mother was beside him, but she missed what happened, for it suddenly became dark, despite it being midday. As if God himself hid the sun from us.”
“Sounds more like the work of the Devil,” Braden said.
“Or one of his minions,” Merryn mused, thinking of Dewer.
His lordship gave her a sharp look.
Did I say that out loud?
“What worries me,” his lordship continued, turning back to the rector, “is how such an abomination could have taken place inside a church.”
Point well taken. As a witch, even Merryn couldn’t enter without the saint’s permission. Perhaps the one she should question was Saint Agatha.
“I’ve a few errands to run,” she said to the rector. “I’ll come back later, shall I?”
“I hope it isn’t anything urgent?” the old man asked. “Is your aunt well, Miss Pendraven?”
“Perfectly,” Merryn said.
“I believe the elderly, too, must take extra precaution now winter approaches.” The earl gave her another look that unnerved. “The evening air can be chilly once summer heat passes, so I warn my aged relatives to stay indoors at night. I would suggest you give your aunt the same advice, Miss Pendraven.”
Merryn stared at him in bewildered silence. He returned her regard. In that instant, she guessed he had seen her by the wishing well with her aunt last night.
But how? She’d ensured he couldn’t get out of Lady Hancock’s carriage until it reached Callington. Yet, somehow, he had traced her to Laneast.
Her aunt underestimated this church guard if she believed she could handle him on her own.
“That is excellent advice,” the rector said, breaking into the uncomfortable silence. “About the elderly not risking a cold by being out in the night air. I shall add that note to my sermon this coming Sunday.”
The obsequiousness in his voice bothered her. Her attention swung from the troublesome earl to the rector. Was he that desperate for funds?
She glanced around the church with a new perspective. For the first time, boarded-up windows and tattered tapestries took prominence. A musty smell permeated the air as if rot had invaded the space, seeking a comfortable place to settle.
She must speak to Aunt Morwena about aiding this little church. Trouble was, with the depleting mining industry, times were difficult, especially if one did not resort to smuggling. Perhaps the coven could arrange a bake sale to help raise funds. Many of the witches were excellent cooks or had such talent working for them. But that must wait until later. For now, her focus was finding Trystan.
“I’ll leave you two to your discussion then.” Merryn bid them both goodbyes. Curtseying, she walked away, her mind turning to her next interview.
Yet, all the way to the porch doors, her shoulder blades twitched as if Braden’s stare bore into them.
Once outside, noting no one else was about the churchyard, Merryn looked up at the statue. “My lady, may we speak?”
The statue of Saint Agatha did not move. Merryn's shoulders dropped with resignation.
How long might this take? Braden could walk out that door at any moment. She wasn’t ready to face him again, not just yet. Whenever he drew near, she could not rid herself of an acute awareness of his presence. Even knowing who he was and what he represented made not a jot of difference. How could such attractive features and that daunting sensual energy have all been packaged into one man? It left a myriad of others sadly wanting.
Forget him, she chided herself. You’ve more pressing matters to worry about.
Another glance up showed the statue remained immobile and uncommunicative. She was about ready to give up, then shook her head. She couldn’t walk away when Trystan needed her. “I wonder if a truth spell would work on a church,” she murmured aloud.
The saint tilted her head downward. “What troubles you, my child? Are you fleeing from a suitor? Do you need my protection?”
Merryn hid a smile at the suddenly conversant saint. “No, my lady. I seek information.”
“I see,” Saint Agatha said, and Merryn received the distinct impression the saint was on the verge of losing interest.
“A boy was brought here for baptism two weeks ago,” Merryn said quickly, hoping to get her question out before Agatha moved on to more pressing matters. “He was six years old. Before the baptism could take place, he was stolen. Do you know who took him or where he is now?”
“I’m the patron saint of martyrs, torture victims and eruptions,” Saint Agatha replied, adjusting her arms as if to hold her severed breasts in a more comfortable position. “Does your request fall into one of those categories?”
“I thought you were the patron saint of bell ringers,” Merryn said.
Saint Agatha frowned. “That is a misconception,” she replied with asperity. “Are you a bell ringer?”
“No. However, I am searching for someone who may have fallen victim to imprisonment.”
“A boy?”
That didn’t sound promising. “I seek him on behalf of his grieving mother who is worried her son may be in peril.”
“Very well, then. What is it you wish to know?”
“How could a man with ill intentions in his heart have gained entry into the church?”
“You have answered your own query. Why do you bother me with it?”
Merryn frowned, thinking through her words. Her eyes widened as comprehension settled. “A woman stole the boy?”
The saint shrugged her marble shoulders. “A witch, a hellhound, a warlock, they were all here that night. Any one of them could have taken him.”
“And you let them into the church?”
“I’m not the boy’s guardian! And the church is in need of repair. If you truly wish to do some good, you’d see to my weakening structure, not beleaguer me about a missing boy.”
“He’s an innocent in trouble.” Merryn wove her way through the saint’s illogic, and back to the crux of the matter. “While he was inside your church, were you not compelled to protect him from all harm?”
The lady’s eyebrow rose with cynicism. “How innocent could he be? He had not been baptized for six years. Besides, his father is a warlock and his mother a witch. Such disparate unions are fraught with difficulties. You should know, also being a child of such a merger. Nevertheless, I gave them permission to enter. After all, God teaches us to be generous of spirit and open to those who seek the greater truth.”
Merryn sighed. At least they were in agreement with that theological outlook.
“Best if you forget that whole unpleasant episode,” the saint continued, her gaze returning to the horizon. “I have.”
“I cannot forget the boy and walk away,” Merryn replied. “I will not abandon him.”
The saint’s gaze swung back to her with such ferocious swiftness, Merryn teetered on her heels.
“The boy is a powerful warlock in his own right, though untrained,” Saint Agatha said in a hard voice. “As powerful as you, Protectress, I don’t doubt. What harm could possibly come to him? We all do what we can, but sometimes we must step back and let the world take a turn to see how events evolve.”
The saint then shut her eyes as if she wished to blot out Merryn’s existence as easily as she seemed to have Trystan’s.
Merryn ground her teeth in frustration. She stared up at Saint Agatha’s stony pose for a restrained count of ten and then asked in as calm a tone as she could muster, “Would you at least relay the details of what happened that night?”
The earl’s voice said, “Talking to yourself, Miss Pendraven? Or are you praying again?”
Merryn lowered her gaze and found his lordship leaning against the closed porch door. How had he come out and she not heard him? Had he been listening to her for long? The one time she needed to sense his presence and he’d crept up on her like a snake in the sand.
Braden glanced up as if to study the saint before training his inquisitive glance back on her. “I gained the impression from our conversation in the carriage that you were not quite so pious.”
“I believe in the Maker, my lord, so why would I not pray when troubled?”
“What troubles you this fine morning, Miss Pendraven?”
He looked as if he really wanted to know. She even suspected that, if she confided in him, he would try to help her. How odd, especially when she knew he’d been sent here to roust her and her sister witches out of Callington as if they were a virulent infection that needed to be purged by leeches.
“Thank you for your concern, my lord, but nothing troubles me that I wish to discuss at this moment. Excuse me.”
“Wait.”
The plea sounded urgent. She turned back, suspicious, but curious, too. “Yes?” Then realized she now stood a step below him, a most disadvantageous position to take with an enemy. Yet, since she’d paused, going back up seemed childish.
“I feel moved to find this missing boy, Miss Pendraven,” Braden said and came forward until he was one step below her, so they stood eye to eye. On equal terms.
Merryn wanted to stomp her foot with frustration. This man’s every action put her sadly out of curl. Why could he not act uncouth, rude, domineering, or at the least, self-serving? Then she would have enjoyed clouting him on the head and not cared a wit about straying from the witch’s code. Instead, she wanted to smile and be agreeable to all his wishes.
“I suspect, Miss Pendraven,” he continued, watching her with a keenly probing glance, “that you feel much as I do.”
Not unless you’re considering ravishing me on these church steps, my lord.
“From our talk inside the church and, earlier, I could tell that you care deeply for those who reside in this quaint town.”
He looked sincere. He had truly listened to her. A most perplexing man.
“In the past, you’ve come to the rescue of many residents in Callington,” he continued in a voice that stroked. “I feel certain you will not sit idly by during this crisis.”
Merryn blushed at his accurate assessment of her character. Warmth rose up her face. As if he were unable to tear away, his gaze followed that flow of blood, heating her further without a touch.
