Barbara Michaels - The Wizard’s Daughter

She handed it to the girl, whose hand moved automatically to receive it, and continued to sort through the other ornaments, inquiring calmly, "What else would you care to have? These garnets are pretty, but perhaps they are too somber for a young girl. Ah, this is what I was searching for."

The jewel was a ring shaped like two small golden hands, the fingers curved around a central aquamarine. To Marianne its deep-blue color and sparkling clarity were prettier than many of the more valuable stones.

"Just the color of your eyes," the Duchess said with a smile. "No" – for Marianne, confused and apprehensive, tried to hand it back – "I want you to have that now. And any of the others that appeal to you."

The stress on the word "now" had been unmistakable. Marianne's eyes filled with tears.

"Please don't speak as if…" She could not finish the sentence.

"Now your eyes are as bright as the stone," the Duchess said, with a little laugh.

"My dear child, don't be distressed; I am not being morbid. I am merely facing a fact I have refused to face before. We are all immortal; but none of us remains on this plane forever. The ring is not valuable, but I know you will cherish it as a memento. And who knows? I may see you wear it for many years yet."

"God grant that it may be so," Marianne exclaimed.

"Now there is one more little task you can perform for me, and then we will take a well-deserved rest. I want a list of all these trinkets. Suppose I give you the description and you write it down for me."

Marianne's fingers were willing; but her heart was heavy as she made out the list in her very best handwriting. There was no longer any doubt about the Duchess's state of mind. She had accepted the imminence of death and was disposing of her worldly possessions.

And why, Marianne wondered, should the idea of receiving a few of these treasures repel her? She had complacently accepted expensive clothes and pretty ornaments, and the attentions of servants; she had enjoyed borrowed luxuries as if they were her own. Ah, but that was the point – she had never really thought of these things as hers by right. They were only lent to her, and in her heart she had known that one day they would vanish, as fairy gold turns to dust when the spell is wound up. Besides, she was no longer the careless, selfish child who had arrived in London. Since then she had experienced the most profound human emotions – terror and love, gratitude and pity. She had grown up – and she almost wished she could have remained a child forever.

Finally the list was finished and the Duchess dismissed her.

"Put on your prettiest dress," she instructed. "Then you may come back and sit with me while I dress. I am dining downstairs tonight. I wish to enjoy the company of my dear friends as much as possible."

Marianne managed to get outside the door before she broke down. Leaning against the wall she wept silently, wiping her eyes with her fingers. She knew she should not be distressed; the spectacle of a Christian preparing tranquilly for the long-awaited meeting with her Saviour and God ought to have been edifying. Marianne believed in the immortality of the soul. Why, then, should she feel so sad?

Lost in her illogical but overwhelming grief, she did not hear the soft footsteps approaching till they were almost upon her.

Turning, with a choked gasp, she saw Victor standing a little distance away. The lamps in the hall had not yet been lighted and the air was shadowy with twilight; she could not make out his features. But when he spoke his voice left no doubt as to his state of mind.

"So you spoke to the old besom after all, and I've lost me position. I'll be getting no references, after what you said; what the devil will become of me now?"

Marianne knew the Duchess had seen Victor that day, but he had been only one of a number of servants and dependents who had come and gone on various errands. Until now she had not known why he had been sent for.

"I said nothing," she protested.

"Indeed! I'll not be taking your word for that."

"I don't care whether you believe me or not. Your drunkenness and incompetence have led to your dismissal, and it serves you right! Now let me pass."

He came so close that she could see his face, set in an ugly sneer. She had never felt any real fear of this contemptible creature and she was not afraid now; but she was glad to see a light approach, for she was not anxious for any further unpleasantness.

"The maids are coming to light the lamps," she said. "You had better take yourself off before you get into more trouble."

With a muttered Celtic curse Victor pushed past her and walked away. Marianne went into her room. The meeting had annoyed but not alarmed her; she was unable to regard Victor's veiled threats with any stronger emotion than contempt. Furthermore, the solemn knowledge that had come upon her left no room in her heart for transitory fears. All her thoughts were now bent on the great Mystery – and on what she could do to prevent its happening. She considered some such action as Carlton had suggested, though she could not believe he had been serious about the idea of fabricating a message from David Holmes. Thank heaven Carlton would be back before the fateful day. Perhaps together they could invent some scheme.

With Annie's reluctant assistance she made an elaborate toilette. Since the most recent manifestations the maid had reverted to her original wide-eyed terror of Marianne, and the latter had given up trying to soothe her. After dressing she looked into the mirror only long enough to make sure she had been able to manufacture a cheerful expression. Then she went next door.

The Duchess was seated at her dressing table while Rose tried to arrange her hair. The poor woman's hands trembled so much they had lost their usual skill, and her face was swollen with weeping. So, Marianne thought sympathetically, she too understands the meaning of what has happened today.

"There you are," the Duchess exclaimed, catching sight of Marianne's reflection. "Just in time, too. Rose is pulling the hairs out of my head, she is so clumsy tonight. Would you replace her?"

"With pleasure," Marianne replied. "Rose, you look unwell. Why don't you go and rest?"

This kindly offer was received with a look of unconcealed hatred. Putting her apron to her eyes, Rose stumbled out of the room.

"Ridiculous woman," the Duchess said, as Marianne began to brush her white locks.

"She is jealous of me, I think. And she has had a bad shock, you know."

"So have you. It is amazing how shocked people are when the things they have always believed to be true actually happen. Rose knows her Bible, she is devout; but when she sees evidence of the survival of the spirit she loses her wits. Ah, that feels splendid. How gentle your touch is."

They went downstairs together to find the others waiting. Even Lady Violet was present, dressed in her usual gray, a lace veil covering her pretty hair and shadowing her face. The evening was not a success, despite the doctor's spasmodic attempts at cheerful conversation; in between his comments his face would sag like that of a sad old bloodhound.

After dinner, at the Duchess's request, Marianne went to the piano. The music soothed her, and it seemed to comfort the Duchess, who listened with a dreamy smile. Lady Annabelle did not stay long. Remarking that music always made Horace the cat start to howl, she departed, carrying the said animal, who did indeed give Marianne a pained stare in passing.

The night and the next day were a repetition of the nights and days that had gone before – quiet sleep, hours of sorting and making lists. By midafternoon the Duchess had finished her self-appointed tasks and declared she intended to rest awhile.

"My dear Marianne, run out and enjoy the sunshine," she said. "We will not have many more such days before winter comes; make the most of them. Only, if you ride, do take one of the grooms so you don't risk getting lost. That selfish Roger and his mysterious business! I am really vexed with him for being away just now."