“How often did your mother write to you, child?” Arachne asked, as Marina settled uneasily into her chair.
“Once a week or so, except when she and my father were in Italy; less often then,” Marina replied, trying to keep her tone light and conversational. “She told me what she was doing, about the books she had read, the friends who had visited. Not when I was a child, of course,” she amended. “Then she told me mostly about her garden, and made up stories to amuse me. At least, I think she made them up, although they could have been stories from the fairy tale books she read as a child.”
“What sort of stories?” Arachne asked, leaning forward.
I wonder why she’s so interested?
“Oh, fairy tales and myths, about little creatures that were supposed to live in her garden, gnomes and fauns and the like,” she replied with a slight laugh. “Entirely whimsical, and perhaps that was the problem, why I never cared much for them. I was not a child much given to whimsy.”
She thought that Arachne smiled. “No?”
“No. I preferred the myths of Greece and Rome—and later, the stories about Arthur and his knights and court and the legends of Wales and Cornwall,” she said firmly. “And serious things; real history, Shakespeare and adult books. And poetry, which I suppose, given that I lived with artists, was inevitable, but the poetry I read was mostly Elizabethan. I was a serious child, and mother didn’t seem to understand that.” She chose her words with care. “Oh, just for instance, she seemed to think that since I lived with the Tarrants, I should be a painter, when my real interest is music. She would send me expensive paints and brushes, and I would just give them to Sebastian Tarrant—and he would buy me music.”
“An equitable arrangement. How very businesslike of you.” Arachne chuckled dryly, a tinkling sound like broken bits of china rubbing together. “And when you were older, what did your mother write about then?”
“What I’ve told you—mostly about her everyday life. Her letters were very like journal entries, and I tried to write the same to her, but it was difficult for me.” She shrugged. “I think, perhaps, that she was trying to—to bring us together again. To make us less than strangers.”
“I believe you could be right.” Arachne shook her head. “Poor Alanna; I knew her even less than you, for I did not even have the benefit of letters, but all I have gleaned since I arrived here makes me think that she must have been a seriously troubled young woman. I begin to wonder if the estrangement between my brother and myself might have been due in part to her.”
“Surely you don’t believe that my mother would have wanted to come between a brother and sister!” Marina exclaimed indignantly. “That doesn’t sound anything like her!”
“No, nothing of the sort,” Arachne replied, unruffled by the outburst. “No—but I must wonder if—if my brother was afraid that if I saw her, I would—” She shook her head again. “No, surely not. But if I saw that he had bound himself to someone who was—not stable—well, he must have realized that I would urge him to—”
“It puzzles me, but that I really did not know them,” Marina said, sitting up straighter. “If you have any guesses that would explain why I was sent away, I would be interested to hear them, and I assure you, I am adult enough to deal with them in a mature manner.”
Oh, very pompous, Marina. On the other hand—I’m tired of being treated like I’m still in the nursery.
Arachne paused. “You know that I told you how your mother seemed to have a—a breakdown of her nerves following your birth. Now, when you tell me of these letters of hers, well—what if she was not telling you whimsical tales as a child? What if she actually thought she saw these creatures in her garden?”
Marina for a moment could not believe what her aunt was trying to tell her. “Are you suggesting that she lost her wits?” Her voice squeaked on the last word, making her exclamation a little less than impressive.
“It would fit the facts,” Arachne said, as if musing to herself. “My brother’s refusal to see, speak, or even write to me, their reclusiveness, the fact that he sent you away. He could have been protecting you—from her.”
It was a horrible thought. And one which, as Arachne pointed out, did fit the facts.
And it would explain why the uncles and my aunt wouldn’t tell me why I’d been sent away. And why the reason was never, ever brought up in those letters.
Now, Marina knew that the little whimsical creatures that her mother had described really did exist—and had lived in her garden. But just because an Elemental Master was able to work magic and see the creatures of her element, it did not follow that she was sane… in fact, Elemental Masters had been known to become deranged by the very power that they wielded. Especially after a great stress, such as a death, an accident—or childbirth.
So what if that had happened to Alanna? Then Hugh would have wanted to get the infant Marina as far away from her as possible—he was protected against anything she might do, magically, but a baby would not be. And who better to send her to than the Tarrants, whose power could block Alanna’s?
It all made hideous sense. “I have to wonder if you are right, Madam Arachne,” she said slowly. “It does explain a number of things. In fact, it is the only explanation that fits all of the facts as I know them.”
She felt a horrible guilt then; here, all this time, she had been blaming her parents for sending her away, when they were protecting her, and in the only way possible! And those letters, filled with anguish and longing—had they come from a mother who dared not bring her child home lest she harm it? What worse heartbreak could there be?
Without Marina realizing it, Arachne had bent forward, and now she seized Marina’s hand. “It is only a theory, child. Nothing more. And I know—I know—that if nothing else, your mother must have been quite well and in her full wits when they went to Italy this year. I am certain, as certain as I am of my own name, that your parents intended to bring you here after your eighteenth birthday. Everything that I have found in their papers points to that.”
When I would be able to protect myself, even if mother wasn’t quite right yet. She nodded. “I think, from the letters I got, that you are right.”
Arachne released her hand. “I hope I haven’t distressed you, child. I didn’t intend to.”
“I’m sure not—” Marina faltered. “But you have given me a great deal to think about.”
Arachne made shooing motions with her hands. “In that case, dear child, perhaps you ought to go to your room where you can think in peace.”
Marina took the hint, and rose. “Thank you. I believe that I will.”
But as she turned to leave, she caught sight of her aunt’s expression; unguarded for once.
Satisfaction. And triumph. As if she had won a high wager.
Chapter Twelve
MARY Anne did not ride. Mary Anne was, in fact, afraid of horses. It was all very well for them to be at one end of a carriage, strapped in and harnessed up, while she was at the other, but she could not, would not be anywhere near one that was loose or under saddle. And for once, not even Arachne’s iron will prevailed. When confronted with the order to take to saddle, Mary Anne gave notice. Arachne rescinded the order. Or so Sally had told Marina, in strictest confidence.