Authors: M.J. Putney
Dark Mirror (37 page)
She rolled onto her back, helpless with laughter. “Do you know how many women in the world will never become duchesses? And most of them manage to survive and prosper very well.”
“I want the best for you, Tory.” He smiled into her eyes. “Have I mentioned that my given name is Justin?”
Justin.
Her
Justin. She savored the name in her mind. A just man. Perfect.
She leaned forward and kissed her foolish darling. “I already have the best.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
In 1803, Napoleon was assembling the Army of Boulogne on the French coast with the intention of invading England. Tunnels to house troops were excavated in the chalk cliffs under Dover Castle as a defense against the expected invasion.
Starting in 1938, the tunnels were extended and modernized and used for a naval headquarters. There were also living quarters and an underground hospital. It is now possible to tour many of the tunnels, but I understand that some are still closed to the public because they contain classified material.
The amazing armada of great and small ships that saved 340,000 men from Dunkirk is one of history’s great stories. Usually the English Channel is rough and stormy in late spring, and the evacuation would not have been possible if not for the amazingly calm weather during those days.
In particular, on Tuesday, May 28, 1940, a storm heading in from the Atlantic miraculously swerved north between Ireland and Britain. (People ask where I get my story ideas. Believe me, history offers lots of great stories!)
There is no record of any teenage girls being part of the armada—but who knows?
Fish and chips were one of the few foods never rationed in Britain during or after World War II. If the attempt had been made, there might have been a revolt!
Read on for a sneak peek of
Dark
Passage
coming in Fall 2011 from St. Martin’s Griffin.
Copyright © 2011 by M. J. Putney
France, Autumn
1940
Tory had almost reached her destination when a machine gun blasted crazily from the farmhouse ahead. As Lady Victoria Mansfield in her own time, she’d been taught to dance and manage a household and embroider, rather badly. As a mageling and a member of Merlin’s Irregulars, she’d learned to dive for cover when she heard gunfire.
She hit the ground hard and took refuge under the hedge on her left, grateful for the darkness. Clamping down on her shock, she peered through the dense branches.
The machine gun was being fired in bursts. Sparks spat from the muzzle that stuck out from a window on the upper floor. The weapon wasn’t aimed in her direction, which was good. But damnably, it was aimed at the small barn that sheltered the people she’d promised to protect.
Another thing she’d learned in 1940 was swearing. She muttered some words that would have shocked her parents, the earl and countess of Fairmount, speechless.
She had to stop that rain of death, and quickly. But how? She was no warrior. She was an undersized sixteen-year-old girl dressed to look even younger. She wouldn’t know what to do with a gun if it was handed to her fully loaded.
But she was a mageling, and she could draw on the magical power and talent of her friends. She studied the small stone house. It was old and simply constructed, two stories tall. Probably just two rooms downstairs and two on the upper floor.
The building was dark except for the room containing the machine gun. Likely the inhabitants of the place had fled when their home had been commandeered.
If she could get inside and come up behind the men with the gun, she should be able to do—something. Exactly what would depend on what she had to work with.
Cautiously she circled the farmhouse, glad she was carrying her stealth stone. It didn’t make her invisible, but it would make the men less likely to notice her. Unfortunately, bullets were mindless and impossible to mislead.
Like most old houses, the windows were few and small. She tested the back door. Locked. Directly above it was a casement window large enough for her to climb through. In case it was locked, she selected a rock the size of a large man’s fist from the stone border around a flower bed. Then she turned her mind inward to focus her magic.
Click!
She began to rise, skimming her left hand along the stone wall until she hovered next to the window. She tried unsuccessfully to open it.
Could magic muffle the sound of breaking glass? She hadn’t tried that before, but it should work. Doing magic was mostly a matter of focusing magical power on the desired result—and Tory had a great deal of power.
She concentrated on silencing the sound. For good measure, she waited until the next burst of machine-gun fire. Smashing the rock into the right-hand casement sent shards of glass flying, nicking her wrist.
The breaking glass made very little sound, but she still waited to hear if she’d been noticed. Coarse laughter came from the front of the house and a man spoke in French. So they were collaborators, perhaps police working with the Nazis. Their raucous words suggested that they were drunk and amusing themselves by shooting up the flimsy barn that sheltered helpless people.
One of them made a sneering remark about killing filthy Jews. For a red-rage moment, Tory wished she did have a gun and that she knew how to use it.
But magic was her weapon. She felt inside for the window latch. The latch was badly stuck, so she gave it a little blast of magic. The lock opened but her hovering bobbled as she diverted energy. She was using up power at an alarming rate.
She wrenched the casement open and glided inside the dark room. Then she cautiously created the dimmest possible mage light. The room was a simply furnished bedroom. The bed looked rumpled, as if the sleepers had left in a hurry. That would also explain why the door had been left ajar, enabling Tory to hear the voices.
As she’d guessed from outside, the primitive cottage would have been old in her own time. Gnarled beams ran full-length across the ceiling. Good.
Outside the room was a short corridor that led to the stairs and the front bedroom. That door was wide open, revealing three men in French police uniforms. All three held open bottles. As Tory watched, one took a deep swig and made some joke she couldn’t understand. The deadly machine gun was mounted on a tripod and pointed out the window. Ammunition belts lay on the floor along with empty brass shell casings.
With only the barest of plans, she walked softly toward the front room. She had just reached the doorway when one of the policemen turned and looked right at her. He blinked uncertainly, but the stealth stone wasn’t enough to conceal a direct stare.
“A little girl!” he exclaimed. “Must have hidden when the rest of the family ran.”
A second man turned and smiled nastily. “
La belle petite
should have run, too.”
He lurched toward Tory. Even from six feet away she smelled alcohol on his breath. Her rage flared again. Narrowing her focus to lethal intensity, she called on the power of her friends. Most of all, she drew on Allarde’s special talent.
Their magic flowed into her, fierce and primal. She made a furious sweeping gesture that blasted her concentrated power at the ceiling beams.
“Enough!”
… and she pulled the massive beams in the front half of the cottage down on the men and their horrible gun. Their angry shouts were cut off with lethal suddenness.
Tory instantly threw herself out the door in a rolling tumble. Even as she hit the floor, she heard the remaining roof beams begin to groan ominously.
Devil take it!
The whole cottage was collapsing!
She scrambled to her feet and raced to the back bedroom, diving out the open window before the roof could crush her. Something hard struck her left arm. She barely managed to catch herself before smashing into the ground. With the last of her power, she turned her fall into a bumpy but safe landing. Damp earth had never felt so good.
Gasping for breath, she pulled her shattered nerves together before pushing herself to a sitting position. Her left arm hurt like Hades and blood saturated her sleeve, but at least she’d escaped. Worse was the pain and horror of knowing she’d just killed or maimed three men. They were brutes, but she hadn’t wanted their lives on her conscience.
She drew a shuddering breath. She had
sworn
that she would never return to the future again. Why the devil was she here?
Because she had no choice.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
DARK MIRROR.
Copyright © 2011 by Mary Jo Putney, Inc. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Putney, Mary Jo.
Dark mirror / M. J. Putney.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-312-62284-8
1. Young women—Fiction. 2. Magic—Fiction. 3. Boarding schools—England—Fiction. 4. Aristocracy (Social class)—England—Fiction. 5. London (England)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3566.U83D37 2011
813'.54—dc22
2010040374
First Edition: March 2011
eISBN 978-1-4299-6545-3
First St. Martin’s Griffin eBook Edition: March 2011
