I grew up on the classic gothic novels of Victoria Holt and Dorothy Eden and Phyllis A. Whitney.

For years, I wanted to write such novels :: the Miss Beale Writes series is my tribute to those early novels that gave my teen-aged self such entertainment.

My first entry in Miss Beale Writes is the novel The Dark Lord.

The Dark Lord is located at this link: https://writersinkbooks.com/mystery-and-gothic-the-dark-lord/

For the scariest time of the year, I have the second novel in the series.

The Bride in Ghostly White

Early in 2025, I was struggling to write fiction while juggling interviews and episode creation for The Write Focus podcast. Finally, I threw up my hands in defeat and dropped the fiction to concentrate on episodes.

When things with the podcast settled down, I should have returned to that novella I had started, but I had a bad feeling about it. I left it to pursue the novelettes that became Courting Trouble, the 1920s mystery trilogy, published last summer.

Finishing Courting Trouble in September meant I should return to that fictional novella.

Starting from the first page, I found a great story hiding in repeated scenes and swirling disconnections, all evidence of the chaos that was late January, February, and March. I revised and wrote new scenes and jerked out the disconnections. Before I knew it, I was a chapter from the end.

The Bride in Ghostly White published October 31, 2025 ~ a fitting time for a Victorian gothic mystery with murder and a ghost.

Read below for the 1st Chapter.

Who murdered Enid’s wealthy cousin? The ghost isn’t telling.

When Enid’s beloved cousin died while riding, she didn’t believe the simple tragic words of an accident.

Seeking the truth, she disguises herself as a lady’s companion to enter the household at Derlaston Manor.

Rumors do not just tell of trouble after the wedding of her cousin to the eighth Baron of Derlaston. Enid also learns of the baron’s need for money, of his late father’s unlucky death while riding, and of a mysterious mistress at the estate when her cousin died.

A black-haired vagabond lurks in a nearby woodland.

And a ghost haunts the manor, a ghost who looks very like Enid’s cousin.

Did the baron commit murder? Or one of his family? Or that mysterious vagabond?

The ghost knows … but the ghost isn’t telling.

Links

Amazon   https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FWD67JNC

Books 2 Read https://books2read.com/u/49gqep

1st Chapter

The rain stopped drumming on the passenger box as the carriage negotiated the sharp turn from rutted road to smoother drive.

It rolled on. The mud-covered wheels flung mucky mire onto the sides of the carriage. When she no longer heard the clumps of dirt, Enid gave in to curiosity. Derlaston Manor must be near.

“A monstrosity of a manor,” her cousin Neris had named it in her last letter.

Enid lifted the heavy drape that had blocked the rain and mud.

The day looked as dreary as it had when the coachman had met her at the Lock and Key Posting House. A long grassy sward followed a gentle slope to a reed-surrounded pond. White flowering phlox drooped after hours of rain. Looking in the direction of the village, she saw dense trees, towering hardwoods mixed with understory trees.

The carriage turned with the drive, and the roofs of low-bricked buildings came into view, separated from the lawn by a painted fence. Horses grazed beyond the white-painted planks.

The drive turned more. The carriage wheels crunched as they rolled over rain-stained gravel, and Derlaston Manor entered her view.

Sunlight broke through the purpled clouds, but it didn’t grace the manor.

Greystone quarried from their own land, Neris had written, and the Benthams proud that their own stone had built such a solid house.

Solid was the only grace the manor had. The rain had washed the granite to charcoal. A brutish Gothic tower centered the long building. Four pinnacles cornered the tower, and matching pinnacles repeated above the massive entry that centered the main building. The wings had repeated bays of a window triad, tall and iron-braced, painted a sagey green that the rain had also darkened. Panes on top of panes would admit sunlight—if ever the sun cast its warm gleam upon the manorial pile. The cost of glazing alone would be prohibitive.With an ornate façade more imposing than welcoming, no wonder Neris had called the manor a monstrosity.

Her cousin had loved the clean lines of Neoclassical architecture. She must have wept internally when first she saw her grotesque new home, all gothic flamboyance without the open symmetry of the Rational era.

The carriage slowed as it turned onto the gravelled court before the entrance. Enid Travers, she reminded herself and touched her plain bonnet, ensuring her hair remained tidy underneath. I am Miss Travers of London, lady’s companion and never anything more. She tugged on her gloves then drew her cloak around her, the black color matching the gloom of the gothic manor and reminding her of Horace Walpole’s Castle of Otranto.

She didn’t seek supernatural interventions. She hunted a murderer.

The carriage jolted to a stop.

The box door jerked open. A man in dark green livery turned down the step.

Enid paused as she leaned out of the carriage. “I believe there’s a mistake. I am Miss Enid Travers, to be companion to the Dowager Lady Derlaston.”

“No mistake,” the footman said.

“But the servant’s entrance—.”

“No mistake,” he repeated. “The rain will start again soon, Miss.”

She accepted his hand and stepped down.

A second footman carried her bandbox through the entry, two paired doors of rain-washed oak, high and arched. Time had worn away the finer details of the carved shield serving as the keystone of the arch tip.

“Go on, Miss,” the footman urged then turned to accept the valise that the coachman tossed down.

“My trunk—.”

“Redger will carry it in from the back.”

Rain peppered down, destroying Enid’s hesitation. She hastened inside.

The deluge resumed. The footman closed the massive doors, shutting out the rain and blowing wind.

Enid stopped a few steps within the cold entry hall. A grand staircase of marble and ebony wood fronted her while dark panels covered the surrounding walls. Light came from a few dim sconces and highlighted the paler paints in time-darkened portraits. The painting of an austere man in Puritan lace captured her attention.

“Welcome to Derlaston Manor, Miss Travers.”

The warm voice countered the chilled hall, and she turned toward it.

A man of her age stood beside the staircase, in the opening to a shadowy hall that she hadn’t noticed. Though dressed as somberly as she, his smile reinforced his voice’s warmth. Hand extended, he approached. Candlelight burnished his blond hair and highlighted his sharply-cut features. “I am Ambrose Welloughbey, secretary to Lord Derlaston. I hope your journey was not too tedious. The agency noted that you were eager to leave London.”

The words harbored a question. Derlaston Manor’s slow country life would contrast sharply with London’s hubbub. Enid offered a smile of her own. “While my working life is recently based in London, I spent my early years in the countryside. London’s coal-grimed streets do not attract me. I miss green fields and wildflowers and singing birds. I am fortunate in my positions, for I am often in rural locales. In my last position I was three years abroad, traveling with a youth on his grand tour.”

“London’s constant busy-ness is certainly off-putting. Where did you spend your childhood?”

“Wales.” The word was no sooner spoken than Enid wished to recall it. She had intended to keep that part of her background unspoken. She must be cautious with every word.

“Our late mistress was from Wales,” he responded with sharp attention, making the connection she had hoped to avoid. “Welsh is not in your accent,” he continued.

“The late mistress?” Her emphasis would hopefully distract him.

“Yes, the late Lady Derlaston was Welsh. Neris Griffiths. Did you know her or her family?”

“No, I’m not familiar with that family name,” she had to lie. “Griffiths? We did have a Griffiths near our home village. One of those unpronounceable village names impossible to spell.”

As if expecting someone to descend, he glanced up the grand staircase. “Lady Derlaston is missed.”

Enid quickly jumped on the additional opportunity to distance herself from Neris. “Did she pass away recently?”

He shook his head. A lock of blond hair fell over his brow, and he impatiently thrust it back. “A riding accident late last year.”

She murmured the expected platitude even as she remembered how Neris had stuck to the saddle like a burr. Multiple jumps and rough terrain never unhorsed her cousin. “A hunting accident?” she added, hoping to snatch more information omitted from the lawyer’s letter to Uncle Griffiths. Here was Enid’s strongest suspicion about Neris’ death.

“She fell from her horse as she jumped over a brook.”

A brook? Enid tried to mask her incredulity. That explanation was senseless. A brook would be a slight hop for a tall hunter. Neris would have ridden one of the best horses in the stable, not a clod that landed in a shallow brook. Yet all Enid could say was “A tragedy for you all.” In her ears, that reaction sounded flat and callous.

“A double tragedy. She had announced only the night before that she expected the new heir. I had only just taken my position here. The former secretary, Mr. Hollister, knew her well. He was devastated. I believe the village still talks of the accident. The baron, however, does not often reference his late wife, and those of us here respect his wishes. Lady Derlaston’s death is not for idle gossip.”

That warning struck Enid more deeply than the shock of the new information.

“Now, I am remiss. You will wish to refresh yourself before you meet the Dowager. I must warn you,” Mr. Welloughbey’s smile flashed out, belying his warning, “she is eager for your arrival. James, will you escort Miss Travers to her chamber? When you are refreshed, come here again. I will introduce you to the Dowager.”

Enid controlled her jumble of emotions. “Thank you. I would not wish to meet any employer, however eager, in all my travel dirt.”

“Based on the glowing references we received from the hiring agency, I am certain all your employers are eager to meet you. James, if you will.”

“Yes, Mr. Welloughbey.”

He saluted her then returned through the side hall, his steps regular and assured.

She followed James up the grand staircase, desperate to sneak glances at the architecture and décor, landmarks that would help her find her way in the impressive manor.

At the first-floor landing deep burgundy draperies covered the tall windows, creating a shadowy gloom. The matching carpet with its paler flowers had faded and thinned. A grand clock centered the landing. Portraits decorated the interior paneled walls, this time lit by silver sconces. They depicted Tudor and Medieval men and women, this veiled lady displaying a large pearl set in a ring, that man with a pointed beard wearing a purple hat on his golden locks. The corridor stretched down the center of the manor, with deep chambers on either side. The landing split the house into two wings, and the footman pointed out the family wing.

The stair climbed on, but the footman said, “Servants’ stair,” and hooked a finger in a waist-height hole to open the door. The servant’s staircase was well-lit with sconces at each tight turn of the stairs. James didn’t look around when she hesitated, and Enid hurried to catch up. The servants would know her expected station in the manor. Apparently, she was to cross back and forth between family and servant realms.

They climbed a tight, steep flight where he pushed open another door, revealing the second story landing. From the landing, running front to back, she spotted two central corridors branching off into each wing, doubling the number of rooms available. The rooms would be smaller, without the depth of those on the first floor. Rain washed down the glazing, turning the outdoor view to a blur. These unlit walls were painted, and the windows had no drapery. The rug was a mere runner over darkly painted planks. Only sconces lit the corridors.

The staircase continued upward, but they did not. The footman turned into the front corridor which was above the family wing. The windows on his right admitted the only light. He pushed open the sixth door of the hall and carried in her valise and bandbox.

Her trunk had already arrived and steamed on the rag rug before the lit fireplace, already heating the room.

Although small, the chamber was larger than she expected. A narrow tester bed with dark green curtains dominated the space. Similar curtains covered the window, open now to overlook the gardens and distant woodland. The only furniture was a wardrobe, a table and hard wooden chair, a washstand with basin and pitcher and mirror, and an upholstered chair near the bed, separated from it by a little table centered with an oil lamp.

James left even as her word of thanks dropped from her lips.

When the door shut she allowed a gasp to escape. The lawyer’s letter had told her uncle and herself little about Neris’ death, just the bare information of when she would be interred in the family crypt at the ruins on the edge of the village. Her uncle had been too ill to attend. Enid veiled herself with heavy black lace and arrived minutes into the funeral ceremony at the parish church. She had walked behind the procession to the cemetery and stood at the edge of the sacred ground while her cousin’s silver-adorned black coffin was carried into the granite tomb marked with the name Bentham. She left on the next train.

Ambrose Welloughbey had surprised her with Neris’ newly announced pregnancy and the exact means of her death.

Had she lived, Neris would have recently delivered that baby, the heir, ninth Baron Derlaston. Or a little girl with dark curls like her mother.

Now Enid had an even greater incentive to discover the whole truth about her cousin’s death.

Vitally important was that no one discover her identify. She could not lose this opportunity.

Neris had married Theodore Bentham, the eighth Baron Derlaston, while Enid’s tutoring position had taken her abroad. That part of her story wasn’t a lie. She had returned to England only a week before Neris’ tragic demise.

The lawyer’s letter, granting her a portion of Neris’ remaining inheritance and containing too little facts, had precipitated her vow to find the truth hidden within his sparse words.

That plan needed months to set in motion. It also needed the complicity of her mentor Miss Boniface, who ran her employment agency with a steely gaze and an iron hand. On Miss Boniface’s advice, Enid used her mother’s maiden name. She brought nothing to betray her connection to Neris, only Grandmother’s locket with its matching drawings of Neris and Enid, captured in the months before Neris was launched into society and Enid left on that extended grand tour. In Miss Boniface’s safe-keeping were Enid’s most precious possessions, Neris’ letters sent before and after her marriage, dwindling closer to the end.

The plan’s success or failure would be on her shoulders.

I will not fail.

Grief must not consume her, not now.

Yet it flooded through her. Neris, here, alone. Expecting a child. Dying mysteriously. Enid had to steel her heart.

A peg near the wardrobe would hold her cloak, but it remained wet from the journey. She draped it over the hard chair to dry. Delving into the valise, she set about repairing the depredations from the long journey, the hours on the train, a lunch at the Posting House while rubbing elbows with all sorts, and a jouncing ride in the carriage. She rescued the valise’s contents from the wet that had soaked through the thick tapestry cloth and placed them on the table. The valise’s interior was good leather, protecting its contents, and she quickly unpacked into the wardrobe. The trunk would have to wait until this evening.

Her gown had survived the day of travel, with only the hem soaked. Its black color would hide the wet. A high-crowned bonnet had protected her hair. She tucked a few loose strands back into the chignon. Then she turned to the trunk, unlocking it with a key. The rain hadn’t reached inside. She had no other reason to delay.

She chose to take the grand stairs rather than the servants’ stair. Footsteps soon caught up to her.

“I’ve never seen you here.”

Enid placed a hand on the banister before she looked around.

A chill swept over her. Bright green eyes had a rakish glitter that aged the dark-haired man. He stopped on her step and flashed a winning smile that would have set many hearts to racing. Although she was of an age with him, she distrusted him on sight. She tried to reject her immediate dislike.

He chuckled as she remained silent. “I know who you are. My grandmother’s new companion. What is your name?” He snapped his fingers. “Trapping. Traggen. Travers. That’s it, Travers.”

“You are before me, sir, for you know my name, but I am not acquainted with yours.”

“That we must remedy, for we will encounter each other daily.” He sketched a bow. “Captain Nicholas Bentham, at your service. You will certainly enliven the ancestral pile.”

She primmed her lips. A younger lady might have giggled, flattered by his attention and his deprecating words about the impressive manor. She continued down the stairs, crossing around to the next flight.

“You do not think you will enliven our existence, Miss Travers? Trust me, we are heartily weary of each other here. A new face, especially a pretty new face like yours, is a welcome addition.”

Flattery again, with no reason except future persuasion. As a woman earning her own way, Enid distrusted flattery designed to soften her defenses.

Mr. Welloughbey was not present. A footman was, not James, but wearing the green livery of the house. Enid stopped to wait.

“Coming?” Capt. Bentham asked.

“My apologies, sir, but no. I was asked to remain here by Mr. Welloughbey.”

“That old prose. No spark in him. Well, your loss, Miss Travers.” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his loose houndstooth jacket and strolled away.

Enid glanced at the footman who studiously looked over her head.

The delay gave her a chance to ponder Capt. Bentham’s words. His flattery she ignored. She wasn’t here for romance. As a companion, she would live between the status of family and servant, belonging to neither realm. She’d taken this position for that reason. Her cousin’s death, happening within the first year of her marriage to the baron Theodore Bentham, had shocked Enid. Daily interaction with the family had to be to her benefit. She would reach the truth of Neris’ death soon than she’d anticipated.

Enid had disrupted her life to find out that very truth. An accident while riding, the words written by the lawyer Mr. Costaigne, was far different from a fall while jumping her horse over a brook. Accidents did happen, even with superb riders, yet a fall during a simple ride—No.

Only the speed of a train enabled her to attend the funeral and interment. She had returned that evening to her temporary employment as secretary to a chemist. From that day, she fretted over her cousin’s loss. Soon she would find answers.

Her letter to Mr. Costaigne, asking for more information, received a brusque noncommittal reply. A Mr. Moakley answered her second letter, guising himself as the lawyer’s clerk. He claimed to have no particulars about the death of the late baroness.

When the chemist no longer needed her services, Enid had the rudiments of a plan which she presented to her mentor Miss Boniface. That lady had proposed a temporary position as companion and mentioned that the elder Lady Derlaston would need a new companion in a few months. The plan took shape. She had to wait, and in that time she worked out several questions to have answered.

Now she stood here, waiting for Mr. Welloughbey.

Rapid footsteps drew her attention, and she turned to see him, tugging at his jacket sleeves, as if he’d removed it to work.

“My apologies,” he said before he reached her. “I thought you would take longer. They will soon have tea. The dowager presides, and you will attend her. This way.” He waited for her to reach his side.

“What is your position here, Mr. Welloughbey?”

“Private secretary to the baron.”

“You have been here for how long?”

“Seven months. I had a few weeks of training by my predecessor, Mr. Hollister. He dared not turn over the reins to an academic.” He sounded amused.

Enid hid a wince. A latecomer to the house, he would have little to tell her. “You’re an academic?”

“I had planned to be. I’m awaiting an appointment to Cambridge. In the offing is a rather different position which utilizes my skills better, but I should not speak of that opportunity. Last year I would have preferred Cambridge, but more opportunity lodges in this other position, especially as the Cambridge position may not open for a decade or more.”

“Mr. Hollister is still here?” The old man would know about Neris.

“Semi-retired in a cottage on the estate. He offers his help twice a week. I do still need to reference him on a few arcane matters of estate management that arise. The baron currently lacks a steward and acts in that capacity himself. He prefers to do so although he sometimes sends his uncle Mr. Bentham to the far-flung properties.”

“Yet you need no help in your position?” she teased.

“Oh, I do need help,” he admitted, earning her admiration for his humility. “Many details of estate management still escape my knowledge, and the ways of the nobility are foreign to me. I am at a disadvantage, for I was raised in Canada. We are under British rule—hail to Queen Victoria—but we are not English, not at all.”

“I thought I detected an accent. Very slight, but there.”

“Mr. Hollister found it deplorable. Enough about me.” He grinned, his blue eyes twinkling, then intoned, “Those in the baron’s employ do not have a personal life.”

“Now you sound very like a private secretary.”

“Mr. Hollister’s words to me, said about once a month now. Said daily when first I came here. Almost hourly that first week. I should be explaining all these rooms.”

“Please do not. My head is spinning enough.”

“Yet you look calm, Miss Travers.”

That was acceptable flattery. She tried to hide her smile. “I have met one of the family, on the stairs. I hope I was right to use the staircase rather than the servant’s stairwell. I didn’t like it, for all that it is well lit. Very claustrophobic.”

“We’re caught, you and I, accepted in the family but still employees, still very like servants” he agreed, understanding the intent of her question about the staircase. “Unless we have guests, we are expected to be with the family. Once guests arrive, we may be relegated to behind the scenes, unnoticed and unseen. Who did you meet?”

“Captain Bentham.”

His smile dropped.

. ~ . ~ . ~ .

Links for this Victorian Gothic Mystery are Here:

Amazon   https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FWD67JNC

Books 2 Read https://books2read.com/u/49gqep

 

For M.A. Lee’s page https://writersinkbooks.com/m-a-lee/

For the Home page https://writersinkbooks.com/

Danger Awaits! Let’s head straight into reading.

Chapter 10

Alstera did not escape the reception as easily as she wished.

Trapped in conversation with a courtier her brother had introduced, she listened to his rattle about the prince’s newest pursuits and watched Camisse and Faone slip away. After the courtier, her brother’s fiancée waylaid her. A facile smile welcomed Lucrece, and soon Alstera’s ears filled with lace and beading and tulle and silk. They debated the rival merits of ribbons over ruffles until Lucrece had decided for ice-blue ribbons to complement her silvery wedding gown. She promised to attend a fitting for her attendant’s gown in three days’ time.

“Ice-blue again,” Lucrece promised. “You are right. Ribbons are much better, and the ice blue is appropriate since I am allying to Clan Letheina after the wedding.”

“I cannot wait to see the design for your wedding gown.”

“As long as you say nothing to your brother.”

“I might steer Romert to select ice-blue for his robe. You should be the only person wearing silver and white. Ice crystals in summer.”

“The perfect décor for the reception. I am so glad we talked. I rarely have an opportunity to see you. Does your great-uncle keep you so focused on the deeper studies?”

Alstera rolled her eyes. “He finds gaps in my earlier training.”

“Romert has said that you and he raced each other through your earliest lessons. What could you have missed?”

“I have no idea, but if Rombrey insists that I re-learn it, then re-learn it I shall.”

“He must want you to be the repository of all things magical, as he is.”

Living in that enclosed tower, consulted but rarely venturing forth—the walls closed in so tightly Alstera couldn’t breathe. “I cannot. I refuse.”

“Someone must replace him in due time. How old is Rombrey?”

“Seventy. Still younger than our ArchClan.”

Lucrece looked rueful. “Yes, she is older. Do you think the ArchClan’s age is the reason your aunt Camisse was recalled?”

She might be her brother’s fiancée, but until she married him, Lucrece remained d’Aulnois clan. Alstera didn’t gossip about the clan to someone outside the clan.

And they spoke with no Shield.

“Lucrece.”

Her name in that tone was warning enough for the young woman, more evidence that she was a great partner for Romert. “I know I should not have asked that.”

And Alstera could not help asking for herself. “Is that what Romert thinks?”

She stepped closer. “He spoke in confidence. I did not intend to mention it, only—.”

“I see that I need to take afternoon tea with my brother and you.”

“When have you time from your studies? Perhaps after your fitting?”

At Alstera’s nod, Lucrece smiled brilliantly. She wasn’t pretty until she smiled, and Alstera—who often wondered about her brother’s choice of wife—realized yet again that Romert saw more than most gave him credit for, the ‘most’ being Raigeis. Lucrece was only an adept. Her family had no real standing in d’Aulnois clan. She didn’t attract attention. Yet she had quick wits. Her innate kindness was a rare commodity in Clan Letheina. And had probably attracted Romert first. As court liaison, he had learned to look past the way the Enclave measured people.

“I will tell Romert. Hopefully, this is far enough in advance that he can avoid court duties for an afternoon.” She gave Alstera a spontaneous hug. “Until then, Alstera.”

She infused joy in her response before Lucrece flitted away.

Then her smile dropped, and a frown creased her brow.

Alstera hadn’t considered her own future after Letheina died and the clan chose a new leader. After excelling at her Trials, she had expected a celebration. Letheina had merely announced that she would continue her studies with Rombrey. The plan allowed Alstera to pursue her own interests, so she obediently followed the order. Rombrey let swing her from subject to subject or delve so deeply she passed even his understanding—until last Yule, she realized. His watch on her interests had sharpened then. His orders to re-learn the accepted tenets and the forbidden spells had started then.

Her friends had taken so many different paths. A few were contracted for their magical skills to cities and countries far beyond Mont Nouris. Several were stationed to border outposts and fought Frost Clime. A handful—like her brother—were attached to the Enclave legation to the palace. Many of those had wedded and were building a family.

She had drifted. She realized it, now. Her freedom was only a glass cage. She could see out, but she didn’t go beyond the Enclave’s walls. Her liaisons with various men were approved, but she could hear Letheina and Raigeis and even Rombrey poking gentle fun at the men. Their mockery persuaded her to move to someone new. Researching spells amused her, but she never did anything significant with those spells. She had wanted to win her grandmother’s approval by seeking methods to increase a wizard’s puissance; instead, she had been played at the end of a line. A line that her great-uncle had jerked several times in the past weeks.

Did Rombrey prepare her to replace him? Romert must think so, or Lucrece wouldn’t have mentioned it?

She pressed her fingers to the frown, but she could not smooth the lines away. She did not want to sit in a tower, imparting information to new wizards, training the best with deeper spells, emerging when the ArchClan or the Aged Sages needed facts about the past or about power. Gods, how boring.

Had Letheina planned years ago for Alstera to take Rombrey’s place as the sage for the entire Enclave?

How little her grandmother knew her.

Or cared about her.

She turned, and as she turned, a hand grasped her arm. She felt a Shield descend. Power sparkled in her fingers at this presumption—then died as she saw who had grabbed her.

“Lord Crispin.”

He dropped his hold. “They’ve arrested Nevil.”

She looked up at her friend’s father and didn’t know what to say. “Yes. I discovered it this morning.” She did not mention her eavesdropping.

“They have him in a cell at Moot Hall. They won’t let me visit him.”

“Oh, Crispin.”

“You know what he was engaged in, don’t you?”

“He sought a method to increase our puissance, to defeat Frost Clime.”

“And Dragon Rising.”

Even with the Shield up, she worried about his open statement of Dragon Rising. No one mentioned the dragons openly. Banished to the Wastes after Dragon Dark centuries upon centuries ago, the dragons were more legend than history.

Sweat beaded Crispin’s brow. “Nevil was seeking information about the Nexus, the very linkage that the Fae have urged the Enclave to resume since the first comeis was bound to the ArchClan. He wasn’t stealing power from anyone. He would have been better served to have gone to the Wastes and reported back.”

“If he survived.”

“Nevil would survive. I know my son.” He glared at the dais where the ArchClan still sat, a queen in state. “She will never admit Dragon Rising, will she?”

“Crispin—.”

His gaze pinned her, squirming like a bug in a child’s insect box. “Nevil said once that you are also investigating how to increase power. In her own house! How have you kept it secret? Or do they know and turn a blind eye to you while they imprison my son?”

She lied. She didn’t know what else to do. “I gave up my investigations into that. It led nowhere helpful. Nevil should have admitted that once he discovered the only method was the forbidden Nexus.”

“Nevil discovered—the people he trusted lied. They claimed he worked the Nexus. He didn’t. My son wouldn’t touch the forbidden. I have heard, though, of another method.”

“What other method?”

“Do you think I’ll tell you? I’ll find myself in a cell alongside my son when you report it to your uncle the magister.”

“I didn’t report Nevil to my uncle, Crispin. Or to anyone else. We talked, last spring, about our defeats by Frost Clime. Not about Dragon Rising. It was after all those wizards were killed at Iscleft.” The older man nodded, remembering, matching what she said to what his son must have told him. “We have no defense against wyre, and they were fools to confront them without backing by the Fae and their swords. That’s when we talked of it, Crispin. Both of us thought a linkage would work. I wish he’d given up when I did,” she lied again, hoping the truth that preceded it would bolster the lie. “Did Nevil find a linkage before his arrest?”

“Not Nevil, no. I heard of it last week, after that wizard was killed. And that’s another problem your grandmother and your uncle are ignoring. Two killed, here inside Enclave walls. A wizard and an adept. By wyre.”

“We have no proof of the wyre. My uncle says so.”

“Your uncle says so,” he mocked.

“What have you heard?”

“I won’t answer that. I can’t. I will say this: don’t go out on a moon-turn night, Alstera, not without a swordsman to guard you. My family will have heavy protection, I promise you.”

“Crispin—.” But he had left her nothing to say except, “My thanks for the warning.”

“Heed it, Alstera.”

“I will. Can you tell me anything more of this other method?”

“I know nothing. Nothing definite. And your uncle will only want what’s definite.”

“I don’t run to my uncle. Ask Nevil; he knows.”

“I would if I could,” he retorted, and once again she saw the pain in his eyes. “They won’t let me talk to my own son.”

She brushed her hand down his arm. “Then know this: My uncle thinks nothing good of me or of anyone except his own children.”

He laughed. “That’s ripe, it is, since his daughter—.” Then he clamped his mouth shut.

“Was Malinde your source?”

He relented. “No. Briella.”

“My cousin Briella? Raigeis’ daughter? She is a minor adept.”

“A minor adept, the very ones who are desperate to unlock their powers.”

Startled at words so similar to Faone’s, Alstera gaped.

“Yes, they think their powers are locked.”

“How can their powers be locked? They are trained in all the elements. They are tested in all the elements. Their tutors would have to collude somehow.”

“I do not know that. Konarr said—.”

Konarr was a d’Aulnois adept, courting Briella while Raigeis frowned. But Briella was six years past her Trials. She would never be more than a clumsy adept. Raigeis, therefore, had not forbade the couple’s attachment. “I thought Briella was your source.”

“Konarr told me what Briella was doing, after Nevil was arrested. He wanted to warn me, but Nevil wasn’t using the method he described.”

“Tell me.”

She felt Crispin test his Shield’s strength. Even though it felt intact to her, the man backed off his earlier candor. “I have said too much. Talk to Briella.”

“If you want me to intervene on Nevil’s behalf—.”

“Can you? Did you not just say that your uncle thinks nothing good of you?”

“I can tell Rombrey. His word holds weight with his sister. What do you know of this method to unlock puissance?”

“They are channeling power in their own lifesparks.”

“Lifesparks? That sounds like blood spells, Crispin. That is also forbidden.”

“Not blood spells. I do not know the particulars. Konarr did not. Briella didn’t—couldn’t show him. But this method allowed her to channel power she didn’t know she had.”

“How can Briella have power that she cannot wield?”

“Talk to Briella. She is in your own house. If she’ll talk to you. She has no reason to share her information with the greatest wizard in the Enclave. And talk to your great-uncle Rombrey. You are right; the ArchClan will listen to her brother. She has certainly not listened to my mater Charanaise,” he added bitterly.

“Crispin.” Yet what could she say?

“No more.” He dropped the Shield and walked away even as she reached to stop him.

People flowed past while Alstera tried to sort thought all he had said—and not said.

I will go with Faone. I’ll go alone if I must. I will meet this outlander Sanglier and discover how he has so impressed her. Sanglier’s lies about a training designed to cripple wielders of power had to be stopped.

And she needed access to Nevil. If the Enclave guards had instructions to prevent visits from his family, they would block her visit as well. Unless she had approval from the ArchClan herself or one of the Aged Sages, who decided the fate of those who broke the tenets or meddled with the forbidden.

Perrault’s magisters kept a tight grip on his visitors. The Drakon had no liking for Clan Letheina. Of the remaining three Aged Sages, the only one who might bend the no-visitors edict for her would be Galfrons. Her grandmother would be an easier approach.

Would she taint Rombrey’s approach on Nevil’s behalf if she made her request tonight?

Could she even guarantee that Rombrey would intercede for Nevil?

What a coil.

Crispin had changed her intention to leave early. Staying late was no guarantee that Letheina would be willing to grant an audience to her granddaughter, especially as the line to speak with the ArchClan lengthened even as Alstera gauged it.

She waited.

Her uncle began to move along the line, vetting who would speak to the ArchClan tonight and who must wait until morning or afternoon or the next day or never.

Music began. Dancing followed. Pretending a blitheness far from her mood, Alstera worked through several partners. She talked of her brother’s approaching wedding. She flirted with friends. She answered questions about her aunt’s return and her twin cousins’ departure for Chanerro Pass. No one else accosted her to have a Shielded conversation.

In the midst of a bourée, she saw her grandmère rise from her chair, speak briefly to Raigeis, then rest a hand on the arm of her comeis who led her from the room.

Raigeis watched their departure before he returned to those remaining in the line he had shortened. He kept a spell in the air, noting times for each person as they spoke. Letheina would have several full afternoons ahead of her.

And Alstera had missed her chance.

She wouldn’t petition Raigeis for an appointment to see her grandmother.

Perhaps tea?

Or she could follow the maid with the breakfast tray?

She excused herself from the next dance. Guests and family and servants roamed the first-floor corridors, but their numbers were fewer on the second floor. No guests climbed the next stairway which led to family chambers. Those corridors were empty, people still below or already abed.

She climbed another stair, to the fourth floor. The wall sconces had guttered out, and no enterprising servant had replaced the candles, but a faint light from far down the corridor lit the way.

The light streamed from beneath her door. Power trickled into her fingers as she opened the carved door.

A man, shedding his shirt, his leather jerkin and weapons already cast aside. Gage.

As she shut the door, Gage removed the bleached linen. He lifted an arm, and she sped into his embrace. She burrowed her head against his chest and sniffed then pulled away. “You need a bath.”

“Just now off-duty. I knew about the reception. I thought you’d stay until it ended. You usually do.”

“Not this time.” She tugged the laces of the court gown’s bodice. “I thought your duty ended much earlier.”

He splashed water into the basin, wet a cloth then scrubbed soap onto it. “The colonel called us into a meeting. We need to double our patrols.”

“Every night? Or just moon-turn nights?”

Cloth forgotten and dripping, he faced her. “On moon-turn nights. What do you know, Alstera?”

“Nothing.” She dropped her gown and petticoats, leaving them for the maid, and crawled into bed. He hadn’t moved. “You’re getting the floor wet.”

“You must know something.”

“I overheard a rumor. Someone said the attacks were wyres.”

“Who?”

“I overheard it. I don’t know who said it. Does your colonel think that wyres are inside the city walls?”

He turned back to the basin and plunged the cloth into the water. “He’s not saying.” Gage shoved off his breeches and finished washing. He left the cloth in the basin. Old habits had him picking up his discarded clothes and folding them to place them on the bench beneath the window. He picked up her gown and underthings and draped them over a chair. “Wyre makes better sense than random attacks. Fits the timing, too. Doesn’t explain the attack on the Fae, though. We don’t know enough is the problem.”

“We never know enough. I’m trying, though.” She scrunched down on the mattress when Gage climbed into bed. “Do you know anything about the prisoner in Moot Hall?”

“My troop’s not there. I know he’s in a power-bane cell, with spell cords in his chains.”

“Chained? Nevil’s chained?”

“How do you know who it is?”

“His father talked to me tonight. He thought I had turned Nevil in to Raigeis so I could continue my own search.”

He pulled her to him, resting her head on his chest and stroking fingers through her hair. “You never told me what you’re searching for.”

“A better defense against Frost Clime,” she lied. She wanted an offense. She wanted an offense that would defeat Frost Clime for a long time. Without sorcerers as allies, the dragons would never rise.

His fingers stilled then resumed. “If there’s a better defense, you’ll find it. You’re the greatest wizard in the Enclave.”

As always, the statement left her feeling hollow. She lifted up. “Will you help me?”

“I’ve got no power, but I’ll do what I can, love. You know this.”

“You have power. I can sense it.”

“Not enough to flick light, but it’s yours if you need it.”

Guilt shivered across her skin. She hid her true purpose when he offered unselfishly. “I’ve seen you flick light. Your power is not ‘nothing’.”

“Whatever I’ve got, it’s yours, Alstera.”

She grinned wickedly. “All your power, Gage?” A gleam in her eyes, she reached under the covers. She had a spell to work, and she wanted Gage well asleep before she burrowed it into his brain.

He groaned, shifted his legs. “Gods, yes. All of it.”

She wrung another promise from him later, to let her work a spell on him. He didn’t hesitate. It was unfair, perhaps, to force the promise by teasing him with her body. But he got what he wanted. When he was drowsily content, he dropped his head onto the pillow. “Enough. I’ve got patrol tomorrow.”

She lay beside him. “Patrol tomorrow and the next day and the next and the next. When is your next leave?”

“Not soon enough,” and he groaned when she flicked her tongue over his chest.

 Chapter 11

 Arctos’ ears pricked up when he heard Faone’s lilting voice. He had lingered after all the others had gone upstairs, not with hope that she would appear but with an expectation that his Prime had scoffed at. “That flighty Naught?” Still laughing, he had followed Sanglier up the stairs for the gathering.

And here she was, as he’d expected, as loyal as Sanglier’s other dupes.

More loyal, he realized when he stepped into the dimly lit entrance hall, for she’d brought a woman with her. They were gowned, rich colors with glittering gems.

Faone chattered to Pannoth, on watch at the door. “My aunt Camisse.” She broke off when Arctos loomed out of the shadows and slipped past the brutish Septimus. “Arctos, are we late? I brought my aunt. Camisse, this is Arctos. She is commander at Chanerro Pass. Have you heard of her?”

Every wyre knew the successful Commander Camisse. “Who has not? A pleasure, Commander.” His smile was broader than ever before. Should Sanglier incorporate this woman into his Nexus, then he would know everything she did when she returned to her command. Faone may have scored a greater coup for their plot to seed discontent and cause disruption in the Enclave.

The woman sketched a curtsey.

“We were delayed several times,” Faone said. “I thought we would be late.”

“They have only now gone upstairs.”

“Already? Tante, we must hurry.”

She turned, but Arctos caught her left hand. He lifted it, examining the finger he had bitten. “Already healed, little one.” He thought of the bite on her upper breast. “Did you have someone look at it?”

“No. Does this mean my own power healed it? That’s never happened before. Sanglier is powerful.”

Not her power but the wyrding within her, proof that she would shift at the next Lady’s Moon, probably on Crone Night. In some wyre clans, such an early sign portended a Prime. He hated giving credit to the sorcerer, but for now he must. “Your power,” he agreed, for that wasn’t fully a lie.

“I will tell Sanglier.”

“That news may please him,” her aunt said dryly, “but we will still be reprimanded if we are late. I confess, Arctos, I am now very eager to meet this Sanglier.”

Arctos followed them up the stairs to the grand receiving room where the gatherings were conducted. The room overlooked the back garden, a wildness among the tamed grounds of surrounding houses. Runniger, sent in advance of the great sorcerer and his wyre, had chosen the old house for the gathering room alone.

With his acute shifter sense, he heard Sanglier before the two females did. The sorcerer had formed the circle but had not yet initiated the link, the “fuse” as he called it to these dupes.

Faone paused at the closed door and looked back at him, her eyes bright and large. Her aunt’s comment must have worried her.

He opened the door and preceded the women. More than a dozen attended tonight’s gathering, not the crowd at Lady’s Moon, but definitely more than the two preceding weeks. “My lord?” he said, the acceptable title to use when the Enclave-raised were present, “Lady Faone brings us a guest. The commander of Chanerro Pass, Camisse of Clan Letheina.”

The two sorcerers startled at the name. Sanglier broke the circle to come greet this exalted guest, and the others followed suit, everyone except the wyre standing as guards.

The Prime came to Arctos. “A true prize,” Martel conceded. “But not the wizard she was told to bring.”

“A greater prize.”

“Defending your little Bitten?”

“Angry that Sanglier did not appoint you to do it?” he retorted. “Her loyalty deepens. This is her first proof. And you did not even expect her to attend tonight.”

“Careful, Arctos. I hear a challenge.”

He angled his head to one side, exposing his neck, all he could do in a room full of humans who did not know that wyre surrounded them.

“Martel,” Sanglier called. That gracious tone, however, the wyre had learned to beware, for it revealed his ire. “Come meet the commander. He is my chief guard, Lady Camisse, an excellent fighter. Should you need practice before you return to the border, Martel will oblige.”

“I thank you,” the woman said. “I prefer changing opponents often. I wish to remain as sharp as my blade’s edge when I return to my post.”

“You are returning?” one of the humans asked. “We heard your nephews replaced you.”

“Temporarily. I must be away a few weeks. It is best not to leave the command position open. My brother sent his sons, but they have no border experience. This morning Colonel Haukbern rode out to replace them. They should return next week.”

Arctos watched her expressions, from the fleeting contraction of her brow to the sweetened curve of her lips, a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

Martel bowed deeply. “I will be pleased to offer any skills that the lady Camisse needs.”

The woman’s eyes widened while Faone giggled beside her.

“Come,” Sanglier said, taking her arm. “Join our circle. Faone achieved success at our last gathering. I sense a great puissance in you. I am eager to test it.”

“You flatter me. My clan is more apt to say that my puissance is a sinkhole. Power drains away when I call it up.”

“Not this night,” he assured her.

Sanglier kept tight hold of her hand. His left hand seized the young woman’s beside him. Runniger stood opposite the chief sorcerer, to balance the flow of power through the linkage. “Call up your power, even you, little Faone,” he added in an indulgent tone.

Arctos stepped to the wall. A wyre had no place in a circle of power. Soon, Faone would have no place there as well. Energy built in the room, crackling over his skin, brightening the candles.

He watched Faone, pleased that her blood had responded so strongly to the wyrding, when he saw the commander shake her hand to free it from Sanglier’s.

The sorcerer tightened his grip. She winced but didn’t cry out in pain. “Do not break the connection,” he warned her. “Power will be loosed without a spell.”

She must have known the danger, for she stopped fighting his grasp. “This is wrong. This is a linkage. The Enclave forbids it.”

“No,” Sanglier said, and others echoed him. Runniger frowned in concentration. The circle must be wielding more power than he had anticipated.

“Nexus,” she gasped. “Forbidden.”

“Not a Nexus,” Sanglier denied. “The Nexus centers power in one person, for that one person’s use. All can use the power in this linkage, once their own power is unlocked. Faone, show your aunt. Call power.”

The young woman nodded eagerly. Her eyes unfocused. Her grip tightened on the hands she held, one of them Runniger’s. Sweat beaded on the young sorcerer’s brow, and Arctos knew who would spark the spell.

An orb, faintly blue, formed in the circle’s center. It didn’t quite solidify. It wouldn’t. The sorcerers would want Faone’s ability to wield power to appear fumbling and untrained. She was frowning, so intent on the orb, so eager. Arctos’ heart ached for the lie she believed.

“Make it spin,” Sanglier ordered.

Camisse glanced at him, then at her niece, then at the orb.

Slowly it began to rotate. Silver crazed through the orb.

“You’re drawing too much,” Sanglier warned.

Faone scowled. The orb lost the silver. The rotation sped up. Then it pulsed, the blue brightening then receding. And again. The third pulse was greater, longer.

Thunder cracked. The orb vanished along with every light in the room. Several women and a man cried out. Then the candle flames grew back.

“Enough,” Sanglier said. “Draw back your power.”

As one, the dupes frowned in concentration. They shut their eyes. Some bit their lips. Brielle, a recent convert, bit the tip of her tongue as she concentrated on performing nothing. All of them did as Sanglier commanded yet did nothing.

Except for the commander. She looked around the circle with a little crease between her eyes. Sanglier released the woman on his left to clasp Camisse’s hand between both of his.

“Do you see? The fuse supports a wielder. We all share. No one takes.”

“It seems very like the Nexus.”

Faone hurried to her aunt. “Did you see, Camisse? Did you see? I can wield power.”

“I did see.” She tugged at her hand, but the sorcerer kept his hold. She didn’t glance at him, though. ‘You will need to practice a few basic spells before you try tonight’s spell again. That could have been dangerous.”

“I keep watch over all spells,” Sanglier said.

She did look at him then. One eyebrow arched. “As long as the combined powers do not overwhelm your skills.”

It was a challenge. Arctos saw his master try to answer twice before giving a shake of his head. Anything he said would ruin the great deception.

“Runniger will help you, little Faone. Come tomorrow—.”

“Or her cousin Alstera can help her. She will be intrigued by this, Faone. You must tell her.”

Sanglier sidestepped the commander’s interference. “Bring your cousin here. She can see for herself and guide Runniger as he teaches you.”

Faone stopped the tug of war. “If Alstera has time. She rarely has time.”

She dashed away to talk to one of the dupes. Arctos saw Martel waylay her. She preened at his congratulations. He scowled at his Prime’s interference with his Bitten, but he remained near Sanglier, wanting to hear what the sorcerer would say to this suspicious commander.

“Do you understand how this fuse is not the forbidden Nexus?”

The commander puzzled over the question, and the sorcerer let her. She finally shook her head. “Linking is forbidden. We’ve considered it. Frost Clime use it, and some have urged that we must adopt this method of the enemy in order to defeat them. But we do not.”

“The Enclave accepted the Nexus in its earlier years. The Nexus funnels all power to one wizard to wield.”

“Saldoran corrupted the Nexus,” she countered. “He showed how easy it is to seize power from others.”

“Yet the Enclave continues the link wizard to wizard. The bonding ceremony we saw this evening, that is a type of linkage, is it not? The clan leader may call upon the power of any in the clan, and the ArchClan may call upon all those who are bonded to a clan leader. That is a true Nexus, funneling all powers to the ArchClan.”

“Letheina does not draw up power that way.”

“You say this because she is your ArchClan and your mother and you trust her.”

Her mouth quirked as if amused. “I won’t chase that rabbit, Lord Sanglier.”

Her comment startled him. Arctos covered a chuff of laughter behind his hand. This woman had surprised the great sorcerer more than once this evening.

“Did you not feel your power fusing with ours through the linkage?”

“I certainly felt power running through me. That was not mine, though. I cannot evoke power as easily as the rest of those in the circle.” She shook her head, a decided rejection. “My power was not in use.”

His eyes widened. “Not in use?” His head lifted back, and he looked down his stubby nose at her. “Is that what they have convinced you of? I do sense great puissance in you.” He touched her breastbone. And her eyes widened at his presumption. She lifted her hand to push his away, but he had already removed it. “I can help you access your power, Lady Camisse.”

“In the same way that you unlocked Faone’s power?”

She sounded skeptical, and Arctos narrowed his eyes. Had this inept wizard managed to see through the sorcerer’s ploy?

Sanglier, though, did not hear her doubt. “If you will let me. Give me both your hands.”

Her mouth twisted, but she offered her hands.

He drew up power. It glowed around his hands, a shining halo of silver, then spread to hers. Brighter streaks, like lightning, came out of her flesh. Arctos saw her eyes narrow. When the halo added a blush of blue, she shook her head. “That’s you. Not me. My power doesn’t come up like that.”

The light faded. Sanglier bit his lips. The shining halo covered his hands; blue flashed—and Lady Camisse chuckled.

The great sorcerer dropped her hands with a muffled cursed. “You are blocking me.”

“If I could, perhaps I would, but I am doing nothing. My power has never reacted quite as anyone expected.”

“I can work with you—.”

“I am intrigued, but I think my time is better spent honing my sword skills. Your chief guard Martel may be of more benefit to me. For his sword skills,” she added with another flash of humor, “not for his other skills. I am glad, Lord Sanglier, that you have helped Faone.”

And she took her leave, gathering up her cousin.

Arctos escorted them from the room, anticipating at every moment to hear an order to take the commander to the cellar, where Clemayya and Jhennanni still suffered their punishment.

Yet no such order came.

Faone giggled when he bent over her hand and pressed a kiss to her bare fingers, with a surreptitious tongue lick to her bitten finger. He bowed just as deeply over Lady Camisse’s offered hand but gave no kiss. When he straightened, he caught her studied look on him. Then she nodded to her niece and turned away from the house.

The other dupes gradually dispersed. Arctos stayed below until the last one had left, close to the Bell for dawn. Only then did he return upstairs.

Sanglier and the others had retreated to his private chamber on the floor above. Runniger talked quietly to the master sorcerer, but his words didn’t cool the seething anger that filled the room. Voldt lay on the floor. He clasped a bloody cut on his arm. Martel stood back, hands behind his back, his smirk in place—and Arctos wanted to punch it off the Prime’s face.

“We lost an opportunity to chain the commander to us,” Sanglier snapped.

Runniger flashed a look at Martel. His eyes widened a fraction, a tiny expression, then he turned back to his master. “Do you think she suspects?”

“No, or she would have confronted me. She left, thinking that I believe her an unusual Naught that somehow earned the rank of ‘wizard’. She is no wizard.”

“You said she had great puissance?” Martel allowed confusion into his question.

“Do you begin to believe the lies, Prime? Fool.”

Prime lifted his upper lip in a snarl that the master sorcerer did not see as he paced from one side of the chamber to the other, stepping around the sextus with his dripping blood.

“We will not ask the little Naught about her cousin the commander. If she speaks to us about Lady Camisse, we will shrug and say merely that it is her choice to return or not. We cannot help those who are unwilling. We will not present any more questions that the commander will decide that she needs to investigate. The commander is not known for backing down from a challenge. She is known for answering challenges in unexpected ways. She may return, looking for more information. Should she return, then we will need to be very wary of her. She will come with her suspicions, looking to snare us.”

Runniger and Martel shared a glance. This time Runniger risked his master’s wrath. “And she is not suspicious now?”

“She left believing that we play with a type of Nexus.”

“She could report that to the Council of Five. She could report us to the ArchClan’s magister.”

“But she will not. She came to see for herself what the little Naught is getting up to. She seemed genuinely pleased that Faone’s power was unlocked. She did not seem to understand the spells are a ruse.” He gave a smug smile, pleased with his own reasoning. “She could not tell the spells are a ruse.”

“You truly could not evoke power from her?”

“She responded to neither Water nor Air, her clan’s two elements. She was a blank, even more so than the Naught.”

“Then how is she called ‘wizard’?” Martel asked.

“Fool. Her mother is ArchClan. Of course, they awarded her that rank.”

“You said you sensed power in her.” Runniger winced when Sanglier rounded on him.

“Must I teach you how to dupe these false wizards and simple adepts and useless Naughts? The lady Camisse does have power, not as great as I claimed, but steady. It almost glows. It sucks out of her, somehow.”

“Sinkhole,” Arctos inserted.

He glanced at the Secunde. “Very good, Arctos, very good indeed. That is how she related that her power is described by her clan. It drains away before she can evoke it. That mother of hers may have shackled it years ago. She will not return, I think. We cannot capture her with power. We will capture her another way. That is for you, Martel. You brag of your prowess with humans. They say she practices at Chappelle’s. Go there at noon. We will catch us a commander—and we will kill her.”

 

Next Installment will post on October 1.

Enjoy your early Autumn reading!04