New Blood (25 page)

Eyebrows rising with curiosity, Elinor gave a slight smile of agreement, a tiny nod, and laid her fingertips lightly on the tweed-clad arm he offered. He seated her on the white velvet-upholstered chair and began to speak as he took the other. Elinor's eyebrows climbed even higher in surprise as she listened. They talked, their heads drawing closer together, like a pair of conspirators. Or lovers.

They'd been conversing for several minutes when Sir William Stanwyck came through the heavy glass doors from the street. He was halfway across the lobby toward the stairs before he saw the couple. Elinor's gray-blue walking dress and Harry's dun-brown tweed did not attract notice, but Sir William saw them. Several emotions chased across his face—outrage, annoyance, frustration, exhaustion—before he seemed to settle on curiosity, and strolled across the lobby toward them.

“Afternoon, Tomlinson,” he said in his hearty voice. “Elinor, my dear.”

“Good afternoon, Cousin William.” Elinor rose to clasp her godfather's hand.

Harry stood with her, on his best manners, and gave a quick nod of greeting to the older wizard. “Sir.”

“And what might you two be discussing so intently, hiding here in the corner, hmm?” Sir William tried to keep a jovial tone, but it grated at the end.

“In the corner?” Harry looked in either direction,
the Cockney sliding back into his diction. “Corner's over there. An' over there. We're not in the corner, an' we're not 'iding. We're 'aving a conversation right out in the open.”

“What about?” Sir William gave up any pretense of friendliness, his eyes and voice going flinty hard.

“Not that it's any of your business, sir,” Elinor said quickly enough to forestall any retort from Harry. “After all, I am well over twenty-one and free to associate with whomever I please. And you are neither my father nor my guardian. But I do not mind telling you. Mr. Tomlinson has just done me the great honor of asking me to become his apprentice.”

S
IR WILLIAM HAD
been puffing up, swelling larger and redder in the face with every word, until the last unexpected one. “His
apprentice
?” He shook his head as if to clear it.

“That's right.” Harry turned a crooked smile on the older man. “Wot? You thought I arst her for me wife? Not that she ain't a sweet armful of a woman, but I know better'n to 'ope she'd accept me there. She's not a woman what wants marriage. She'd be married by now if she did. It's the magic she wants. An' if nobody else is willin' to offer it, I will.”

“Take it back!” Sir William thundered.

“No, sir, I won't.” Harry folded his arms across his burly chest, accent fading. “I made the offer. It's her choice to take it or not.”

“You're an alchemist,” the wizard blustered. “Women can't learn alchemy.”

“Prob'ly not. But there's nothing in the charter says I have to teach her alchemy. It only says ‘Masters shall take apprentices to teach them the workings of
magic.
' It don't say what kind o' magic. It don't say alchemists 'ave to teach alchemy or only wizards can teach wizardry. That's the way it's worked out 'cause it's what's easiest. But there's no rule says it has to be so.”

“I forbid it. I forbid it absolutely.” Sir William was so wrought up, spittle flew from his lips.

“You cannot,” Elinor said calmly, tugging her gloves on. “Again, you are neither my father, nor my guardian.”

“I'll write to him, by God. I'll tell him what nonsense—”

“Cousin William.” Elinor laid her hand on his arm in an attempt to calm. “My father is not an autocrat. He does not believe in ‘forbidding' his children. Nor does my mother. Browbeating with guilt, perhaps, if sweet reason does not suffice, but not ‘forbidding.' No letter will change him. He will say ‘whatever Elinor thinks is right.' You know he will.”

“Bloody idiot,” Sir William muttered, before his eyes narrowed and his expression hardened again. “I might be merely your godfather, Elinor, not your father, worse luck. But I
am
head of the Magician's Council of England. And in that office, I can and do forbid it.”

Harry was shaking his head. “No, you can't. That's in the charter too. The council has no authority over a master magician's choice of apprentice. An' it says
the council
shall
educate all persons found with the ability to work magic.
Persons,
Billy. Not men. Last I looked, women were persons. Women were part of the council when the charter was written. I think it's past time they were members again.”

Harry unfolded his arms and turned toward Elinor. “I made the offer. I ain't—I won't take it back. It's up to Miss Tavis whether she accepts or not. It's between her an' me an' no one else. Not you, not the English Council, or the whole International Conclave. It's
her
choice.”

Harry took her hand, holding her gaze a moment before bowing over it and heading for the stairs.

“Well!” Sir William glowered after him briefly, before turning to his goddaughter. “Elinor, you can't possibly be considering—”

“Why not?” She cut him off. “Why the bloody hell not?”

He recoiled, both at her profanity and her vehemence.

“He's right, you know,” she went on. “Magic is the only thing I have ever wanted, since I was a little girl. Since I discovered that I could make Mama's flowers open. And if that man is the only chance I am going to have to get the only thing I want, then nothing—do you understand me, Sir William?
Nothing and no one
will keep me from grabbing hold of that chance with both hands and holding on tight.”

“Elinor.” Her name was a groan in the older man's voice.

Sorrow swept across her face before it vanished behind determination as she tugged at her gloves. “I am sorry I cannot be what you think I ought,
Godfather, but we can all only be what and who we are. And I haven't actually accepted him yet. I need to think.”

She checked her image in the mirror behind her. “Shopping is good for thinking.” She turned and smiled brightly at Sir William. “And this
is
Paris, after all.”

 

T
HE TRAIN FROM
Vienna chugged deeper and deeper into the magic vacuum on its way to Paris. It would pass through regions of countryside where some magic returned and Jax could breathe, but those moments of respite came farther between as they neared the branching of the line between Karlsruhe and Rastatt, with Strasbourg and France beyond. Each time they plunged back into the magic-free areas, the vacuum was more pure than the last.

By the end, Amanusa had her nightgown torn down the back to expose skin all the way to her waist. Jax sat behind her, his only concession to modesty the nightshirt wrapped round his hips as he draped his mostly naked body over her.

They'd ripped the sleeves from her gown so she'd have something left to hold it up while he aligned his bare arms alongside hers. Her skirt was hiked up, baring her legs to rest atop his. The exposure had mortified her at first, but Jax was so matter-of-fact about it that she eventually relaxed. Then later, when he kept losing consciousness and sliding down the wall wheezing, she'd been so frightened for him that she hadn't time for embarrassment.

When the train finally crossed the Rhine into France and then chugged out of the vacuum region
near the river, she fell asleep, exhausted. Jax woke before she did, and had dressed, tended to Crow, and cleaned up the compartment as much as possible with Amanusa lying unconscious on one of the bunks. His actions eliminated any “waking up in bed together” awkwardness, for which Amanusa was grateful. And yet, she couldn't help being a bit disgruntled as well.

They were almost in Paris, where Jax had promised to marry her if she asked him again. Where he'd promised to teach her the sex magic, after they were married. Wouldn't it be easier to get through that morning-after, if they'd already managed to get through this one?

Jax was behaving as if he'd never pressed his strong naked chest to her equally naked back. As if he had no idea what her bare legs might look like—or even if she had legs under her skirts. And she was an idiot for caring what he thought. Amanusa buttoned herself into her Budapest clothes and strolled with him to the dining car for breakfast.

They traveled through two more minor vacuum areas, where hand-holding sufficed to keep them feeling well, and they were in Paris in time for a late breakfast the next morning. Jax opened the compartment window to let Crow fly free. He would find them later. He always did. Then it was time to disembark, exchange tickets for luggage, locate a cab and a decent hotel.

It took Jax a few moments to realize he understood the shouting in the streets. He could speak French. Of course. He'd learned it when he was young and had traveled . . . he couldn't remember.
But he did understand the newsboy's cry about a grand reception given last night at Tuileries Palace by Emperor Napoleon III in honor of the magicians gathered for the International Conclave meeting in Paris.

He handed Amanusa into the cab and called to the boy, who scurried over with a paper and scowled as he waited for Jax to find a few sous amongst all the marks and pfennigs in his pocket. The conductor had been happy to change several marks into francs, at the exorbitant on-the-train rate.

“What is it?” Amanusa asked when Jax settled into the cab opposite her and flipped open the paper.

“The conclave is meeting in Paris.”

“Yes?”

“The conclave.”
He set aside his impatience and pulled himself out of the newspaper to explain. She couldn't help not knowing. “Magicians in every country have a council.”

Amanusa nodded.

“The conclave is the council of national councils. Representatives from all the councils—usually the head of the national council and the magister of every guild—meet together to discuss matters of importance to all magicians. Somewhat like the Congress of Vienna, but larger and much, much older. The conclave has existed since the Caesars.”

“And the Congress of Vienna is . . . ?”

“Was. It was the meeting of governments after Napoleon's defeat, to decide what to do about France.”

“Ah.”

Jax shot a quick look at his sorceress, but she didn't seem angry, or even annoyed by his impatience
and didactic tone. He smiled at her, hoping to keep her un-annoyed. “Usually the conclave meets every four years to show off new discoveries in magic study, hash over silly differences in national charters, and quarrel. This time, it appears they've called an emergency session, only two years after the last, to discuss those vacuums. They're calling them
l'endroits de la mort.
Dead zones.”

Amanusa shifted position, her eyes flicking to the spell-shut machine case beneath Jax's seat. “Do you think we should give them the machine? Is that why you're so interested in this conclave?”

“Probably. I'm sure they'll want to see it. But that's not why
we
are interested.” He shook out the paper and re-folded it. “Remember, I said all of the national councils send representatives. This includes the British council. Since Yvaine was a member of the British council, your claim to your inheritance as her apprentice must go through them.”

“Oh. Dear.” Now she bit her lip. Jax truly wished she wouldn't do that. She sighed. “I knew becoming blood sorceress wouldn't be as easy as you made it sound.”

“My apologies.” He had to smile at her. “But first, you already are a sorceress, and second, the British council is different from the Hungarian. It might not be easy to claim your proper place, but it should not be life-threatening.

“And—” he went on with what had occurred to him the minute he'd heard the news. “It could be easier to convince the representatives in Paris to confirm your status and your inheritance before we have to tackle the entire council. We might even be able to
avoid having to take them all on, if we can get the head to approve your petition here.”

“I see.” Amanusa nodded, quickly following his reasoning. Her cleverness was one of the things he liked so well about her.

Jax shut that line of thought down. He was her servant. It did not matter what he liked, or whether he liked her at all. His opinion had no bearing on anything. In fact, he shouldn't
have
opinions. Ideas, yes. Especially if they benefited her. But no opinions.

“So where do we begin?” Amanusa sat back in her seat.

“At the hotel where the British delegation is staying, I should think.” Jax rapped on the roof, and when the cab driver opened the window, he asked whether the man knew where
l'Anglais magique
were staying. He did, of course, and it turned out to be the same hotel Jax had already given as their destination. Coincidence? Or memory?

It didn't matter. They were in Paris. Out of Hungary. Out of the Austrian Empire and the reach of the Hungarian Inquisition. They were in reach of Scotland and home, and they could take a few days—or weeks—in Paris to ensure the secure possession of that home.

“Now what?” his sorceress prodded.

Jax looked up at her, clothed in deep green with a simple, unadorned bonnet. She was lovely, and not at all sorceress-like. “We shop. If we want these magicians to accept you as a blood sorceress and fellow magician, you must look the part. Your dress is the wrong color.”

Amanusa's lips quirked in a smile. “Ah. I need red.”

He shook his head. “Red is the alchemist's color—or one of them. They wear red, blue, or gray. Wizards' robes are green or brown. Conjurers wear black.”

She was frowning now. “Blood is red. If a sorceress doesn't wear red, what color does she wear?”

“White.”

 

T
HAT AFTERNOON
, J
AX
sent a note requesting an audience with all the members of the British delegation three days hence, concerning a matter of utmost importance. Then he dragged Amanusa out to the dress shops, which were exactly where he somehow remembered them being.