Chapter Five
Barberry started his spell with the same breathing exercises that Cousin Jasper had been teaching her. After that, Sephie sensed his power, flowing as music from him into the little plants on the shelf, though he sang in Welsh, and she had no idea what the words meant.
Just what he had told her, she supposed. Drink, feed, and sun yourselves, little plants. Grow fast. Grow strong.
She should call him Mr. Barberry. He was a mage, and therefore worthy of the respectful honorific, and come to think of it, even as a gardener, he was a man of knowledge—knowledge she had previously discounted, but the way he had talked about water, food, and sunlight had shone a light on her mistake.
She remained quiet while he worked, feeling his music hum through her, the cinnamon and ginger smell of his magic—so appealing—dominating all the other odors in the greenhouse.
She didn’t want to interrupt lest she damage the plants, but as soon as he finished, she said, “I don’t think I can just sing like that.
I think I could write a song and then sing it. Would that work, do you think?”
“Why not give it a try?” he asked. “If what you are doing now doesn’t work, try something else.”
“I shall,” she decided. “Thank you, Mr. Barberry.”
He looked startled at her thanks. Was she really such a horrid person that he expected no courtesy? You are. You know you are.
“It was no trouble, Miss Thornton. Please let me know how it works for you.”
That was nice of Mr. Barberry. Sephie felt some of her usual stiffness with people soften.
“I am sorry about before. I was not cross with you, but with myself.” The words amazed her nearly as much as they apparently surprised Mr. Barberry.
It would not be true to say that his jaw dropped, but it certainly loosened enough for his mouth to open.
“I understand,” he said. “Give it no further thought, Miss Thornton.”
Mr. Barberry was a nice man, Sephie decided. “I have not been able to find out why Cousin Delia went to London,” she volunteered.
“The Hawk is expecting the impossible,” grumbled Mr. Barberry. “Lord and Lady Baradine are hardly likely to spill all their secrets to someone they do not know, even if you are a relative.”
“A poor relative,” Sephie acknowledged. “They hold their private conversations—and the private meetings with their visitors—in Cousin Jasper’s study, and the very walls and doors are bespelled against both intruders and eavesdroppers.
Even the maids are not permitted in, except for two hours once every three days, to clean under the housekeeper’s supervision. ”
“Difficult,” Mr. Barberry acknowledged, which encouraged Sephie to say more.
“Cousin Jasper has no reason to trust me. I do not believe he even knew of my existence before my uncle, the duke, told him to take charge of me. Our fathers were not close. My grandfather had three different wives and a son by each of them. My father’s mother was a Welsh woman, and so was his wife, so I am more Welsh than English by blood, but my mother died when I was eight,” and had little to do with Sephie before that, “and my governesses have all been English, so I do not know anything about Wales.”
He can have no possible interest in such ancient history. She should have held her tongue. But he did not appear bored or impatient.
“I am sorry for your losses, Miss Thornton,” he said.
She inclined her head in thanks before she said, “I should leave you to your work.” “Thank you for your help. I shall let you know whether singing does the trick.”
“Good luck,” said Mr. Barberry, and she could feel him watching her, his gaze a prickle between her shoulder blades, as she walked away down the greenhouse and let herself out of the door.
She was entering the house by the summer room when she met Cousin Delia coming the other way.
“Persephone, there you are. Have you been for a walk in the garden?”
Sephie nodded. “It is very pleasant today,” she said. “Were you looking for me, Cousin Delia?”
“I was. I wanted to talk to you about the troubles you are having with magic. I need to let you know what I have observed since I first began to manifest the catalyst gift. Can I ask you to listen and at least think about what I have to say?”
Although she had bristled when Cousin Delia said, “troubles you are having with magic”, Sephie softened at the other lady’s openness and obvious wish to be helpful. Cousin Delia has been nice to me, she reminded herself.
“Yes, Cousin Delia. I shall,” she said.
“Let us sit here, then,” said Cousin Delia. “We might as well be comfortable while we talk.”
Once they had taken the chairs that the lady indicated, she began.
“Despite what the College of Mages chooses to think, mage gifts do not fit neatly in their categories. To them, if you work with herbs, potions and the like, you are a witch. If your magic is all willpower and gestures, you are a sorcerer. If you work through influencing the minds of others, you are an enchanter.”
Her impatient huff seemed to relegate that system and its supporters to the nearest rubbish heap.
“People are not that simple. I believe every mage gift is different. Yes, most are similar enough that the usual methods of training work, but it is a scandal that our current examiners and trainers ignore people whose gifts work differently.”
“Like me,” Sephie said.
“Exactly like you, and like my husband, too, who only really came into his own when my safety was threatened, and he released his power and found out who he was. I could give you several other examples. I have just learned that my own brother is doing poorly in the College of Mages at Chester. It seems that he, too, has a gift that does not neatly fit. Jasper is going to go to Chester to tell the duke there what Jasper and I have discovered.”
Sephie suppressed the urge to mention Mr. Barberry’s magic. That would lead to questions she did not wish to answer.
“Jasper and I traveled to London this week because of this very issue,” Cousin Delia confided.
“We spoke to the Dean of the College of Mages, the prince regent, the prime minister, and several other prominent magic users, trying to persuade them to broaden their training to allow for those who cannot learn the usual ways. They would not listen. It makes me so cross. The dean actually had the nerve to patronize my husband!”
The cloying syrupy voice she put on must be intended as an imitation of the dean, one of the most powerful women in England, when she said, “My dear Lord Baradine, you are very young to your powers. You must trust those of us with more experience to know best.”
Then, in her own voice, she added, “I think you, too, struggle to believe Jasper. But I can assure you he is right, and I am certain you will learn to manage your gift, if you just persevere.”
“I shall certainly try,” Sephie said. “You have given me a lot to think about, Cousin Delia. Thank you.” A lot to think about and the answer to the Hawk’s question.
Sephie thrust away a sudden sense of guilt at spying on the Baradines when they were so keen to help her.
England and Wales were enemies, and she was on the side of the Welsh. Wasn’t she?
*
If Miss Thornton could not invade the private meetings in Lord Baradine’s study, perhaps Taz could. Or at least his flowers could. He was fairly certain he could spell them to act as his ears, so he could hear conversations from inside the sanctuary. Or perhaps a house plant.
A house plant would stay put, but on the other hand, if the protective spells prevented him from hearing anything, wouldn’t flowers be better?
Flowers would need to be replaced as they faded, giving him an opportunity to collect them from the feeder heap for the compost bins and retrieve the information they had collected.
Yes, he would try flowers. The housekeeper sent daily orders for cut flowers for the house, but he had no idea where they ended up.
And sometimes Lady Baradine herself came out with a basket and scissors to pick her own flowers, but Taz could think of no way—short of spelling the entire garden—of ensuring she selected the flowers he had chosen to spy for him.
He needed to somehow persuade the housekeeper that a vase of flowers—his roses, for example—would be perfect for the master’s study. And he’d need to do it without raising suspicions about his motives.
First, though, he would try a test. It was one of his daily tasks to cut flowers and greenery, and he always provided extra so that whoever did the vases for the house would have plenty to choose from.
Some of the surplus would be kept in water.
Some—those that faded quickly after picking—were thrown out.
Sure enough, he was able to glean several bunches of dahlias, sweet peas, and anemones that had been discarded. He could think of several ways that an eavesdropping spell might work, and the only way to find the best would be to try them.
He soon discovered that constant transmission to him made the flowers obvious to his mage sense.
That might work well enough among the ungifted, but it would immediately blow his cover if anyone noticed.
And if the study was full of the realm’s most powerful mages, someone would most certainly notice.
Recording was more subtle. If he hid a flower or two carrying a recording spell within an un-spelled bunch, the faint trace was imperceptible, at least to his mage sense.
To ease later identification, he tied a green thread around each spelled bloom, where it would be hidden against the green of the leaves.
He put one vase on the table in the servant’s hall for the outdoor staff, and took one to the kitchen.
“What’s this then?” demanded the cook.
“Leftover flowers from the order for the house. But they’re pretty enough, and it seemed a shame just to throw them out before someone had a chance to enjoy them. Pretty things for a pretty lady, Cook.”