Chapter 1 #9
As it transpired, the gaslamp-lit parlor he led them to was filled largely with trays of half-eaten, abandoned food and scattered paperwork, ranging from pages of freshly-scribbled notes to what looked appallingly like recently-wine-stained ancient documents.
Margaret was so horrified by Morningford’s inappropriate treatment of research materials that it took her a long moment before she finally noticed, hidden in the midst of all that chaos, the fist-sized, dark red garnet that sat nearly camouflaged atop the patterns of the carpet.
Her breath stopped as everything else fell away from her field of vision.
The Rose of Normandy.
It was, of course, no polished and glittering piece of modern jewelry but a roughly-cut, ancient gemstone.
Some of its facets looked deceptively plain in a dull, near-brownish red, while others, smoother and brighter in their color, gave off an eerie but unmistakable glow.
More than one of the facets, in their various fractures and gradations, gave the illusory impression of hidden depths, as if other worlds lurked deep within it.
Of course, in their own fashion, they did—and the power of all those waiting possibilities drew Margaret in a lunging step forward across the littered floor, heedless of the detritus that crunched beneath her sturdy boot heels.
A buzzing sensation reverberated through the air and vibrated against her skin like a warning of imminent lightning or thunder, rumbling too deep for any mere human to hear.
“Take care, my dear,” her husband said softly behind her...
Just as Morningford let out a contemptuous snort. “You see? It’s utterly useless.”
At that, even in the grip of breathless passion, Margaret stopped and turned to gape in disbelief. “I beg your pardon?” she demanded.
Morningford scooped up an open bottle from a side table and took a long, sloppy swig, while Lord Riven looked on with open distaste.
“Oh, yes. All those centuries of wild stories... All my ancestors’ promises of what could happen when we finally tracked it back down for our own use.
.. All those wasted bloody years I spent watching you take everything that should have been mine. .. And what for?”
He gave a bitter laugh as he gestured with the hand that held the bottle, heedless of the drops that flew across the room to spatter across priceless documents and make Margaret cringe.
“They were all wrong! And so were you, for all your smugness. This rock may have worked miracles in the past, but it’s long since lost all of its powers.
It won’t do a thing for anyone anymore!”
“It has not lost any of its danger,” Lord Riven said through his teeth.
As Margaret said, “That is patently absurd. I can feel its power from here!” She pointed impatiently at the Rose and felt its vibrations ripple through the air, drawing her an involuntary half-step closer. “Why in the world would you come to the conclusion that it had lost anything?”
“Because I’ve spent the last three days throwing everything I have at it without a single effect!
” Morningford snarled. “I’ve thrown every invocation at it that I can think of.
I’ve even rubbed its damned sides like a lamp from a story!
In the end, I even got so desperate, I broke down and used that stupid poem you suggested in your thesis. ”
He grunted with bitter humor as he took another swig. “That’s some satisfaction, anyway. At least you were wrong too. I always knew you must be faking all that certainty, no matter how many people you fooled. Your work was shoddy all along.”
“What?” Everything fell away but his sneering face as his words rocked through her. “My work is not shoddy!”
“My dear...” her husband began, nearby.
She ignored him, her glare fixed on her nemesis. “Exactly how did you attempt the Norman ritual that I suggested in my thesis?”
Morningford blew out his wine-smeared lips in a whuffling sound of contempt. “How do you think? You’re always so damned fussy, getting lost in all the details. I was man enough to scoop the damn rock up, read the stupid little one-line poem exactly as you wrote it in your thesis, and...”
“The translated version?” Margaret’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief. “The original poem is in the appendix. Did you not even bother to read that part?”
“My dear...!” her husband repeated, more urgently.
“One moment!” She flapped one hand in impatient reassurance. “I just need to sort out this point and show him how very wrong he is, again.”
“But—”
Morningford spoke over Lord Riven, looking both affronted and uneasy as he scooped up a familiar thesis from a pile on the floor and began to flip through its pages. “Why would you bury the original in the appendix if it actually mattered?”
“Because it wasn’t meant as an instruction manual!” she snapped. “I was following best academic practice, as you’d know if you ever paid attention to the rules.”
“Individual words shouldn’t matter anyway,” Morningford muttered, his shoulders hunching as he read.
“It’s a ritual,” Margaret said sternly, “a holy one. Did you even bother to start it with a prayer?”
“A prayer?” Morningford snorted. “Like what? The Lord’s Prayer? Or—”
“Margaret,” said her husband, moving forward with intent.
But with her academic reputation on the line, Margaret had no time for even the most appealing of distractions. “Anything!” she told Morningford. “Any prayer from the heart would have sufficed. It was not my work at fault in your failure!”
“Oh, holy God, let this work for me!” Morningford groaned—and then, as Margaret blinked in surprise, he launched into the very words she had worked for so many years to uncover. “Ouvre-moi ton c?ur, pierre précieuse, et accorde-moi une merveille!”
“No!” Lord Riven bellowed.
An explosion of pressure burst through the air, knocking Margaret back as it billowed out from the stone that still lay on the floor, shooting out glorious red rays of light across the room. Its powers had unlocked exactly as Margaret had always known they would with that ritual.
It was so utterly glorious, she could hardly breathe with wonder.
It was so academically satisfying, she could have floated up into the air with glee...
And then she heard Morningford’s next words, hoarse with triumph: “Make me new monsters!”
“What?” Margaret spun around, horror like a splash of icy water to douse her victory. “No. Stop! What are you thinking?”
“I’ve finally won!” Morningford’s bloodshot eyes were alight as he grinned manically past her at the radiant Rose of Normandy. “I’ll be the one in the history books now! After all those years watching you take everything that should have been mine, I’ll be the one remembered.”
“But...that was what you took from all of your own years of study?” Margaret stared at him in disbelief. “Don’t you recall what happened the last time someone tried this? The horrors that resulted? All the deaths?”
“People are still talking about it hundreds of years later.” His grin peeled his stained lips so wide, he looked feral with hunger. “I’ll be the most famous Morningford from now on. People will think this college was named after me!”
“There are principles more important than fame,” Margaret gritted.
“There are even...” Oh, God! She grimaced, her chest compressing with agony as realization slotted into place.
“Issues so much more important than winning or being right. Damnation!” As the air thickened around them with the condensing power of the Rose, she looked past her victorious rival and saw the bleak expression on her husband’s face.
..her husband, who had tried so hard to stop her from committing her own fatal mistake.
“I swear, I’ll step down from academia if you want,” she promised Morningford in a desperate rush as her husband doubled over, no doubt in despair at her folly.
“I’ll never challenge any of your theories again, no matter how misguided or foolish they might be.
I’ll even tell everyone you were right about everything. Just stop this madness, now!”
Morningford snorted down at her. “Who’s going to make me? You? You couldn’t knock over a fly.”
“Luckily, Lady Riven has a husband now, to deal with the heavy work.” Apparently, Lord Riven had actually been leaning over, not to despair but to scoop up a heavy book.
He slammed it into the back of Morningford’s head with a painful-sounding thump that sent Margaret’s rival crashing safely to the ground.
She spun immediately back to the Rose of Normandy...whose deep red glow did not diminish. Instead, it began to pulse with unmistakably gathering momentum.
“Do you know how to stop it?” her husband asked urgently.
“Only its caster can stop it,” she whispered numbly. “But as he utterly refused...oh, God, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I did this!”
“No.” Lord Riven’s warm, steadying hand landed on her back as eerie white light began to mingle with the pulsing red glow before them. “This was not your fault. The fact that that pathetic weakling chose fame over honor was his failure, not yours. Whatever comes next, you were not to blame.”
“How can you say that?” Margaret turned in his embrace, taking in his dear, familiar features as if for the first time. “You tried to stop me just now. If I’d only listened, if I hadn’t been so determined to prove myself...”
“You have nothing to prove to me,” he said quietly.
“Not ever. You’re by far the most brilliant person I’ve ever known—and more.
You saved me from my self-imposed prison after centuries of pain.
Without you, I would never have worked out the trick played upon me to steal the Rose, much less been given any chance to regain my honor.
You woke me up from my stupor and brought me back to life after I had given up all hope.
I will never be anything but grateful to have become your husband, no matter what horrors may befall us. ”