Elementary (32 page)

Wilbur nodded. “Daisy Mae, you're going to have to do two things if you want to keep your job.” He stopped and looked at her. “Well, make that three.”

“Yes?”

“First, you're going to have to work as long as it takes tonight to get this place picked up. Charlie will be mad as a hornet if he comes in to a messy shop tomorrow morning.”

“I already planned to do that, Mr. Wright.”

He smiled. “Second, from here out you have to promise not to tell Artemis Cash about our work.”

“I already planned that, too.”

“That's good.”

“What's the third thing?”

“The third thing is the most important.”

Daisy swallowed hard.

“The third thing is that you have to promise me that no matter what happens, you'll never stop making mistakes.”

“What?”

“You made a big mistake tonight, Daisy Mae. No doubt about it. But you've got the dreaming disease. I see it in you every day. You're young, and you need some learning. But the world needs folks like you, people with interesting questions and ideas who are willing to make mistakes, so long as they're also willing to clean up after them.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wright.”

Wilbur rose up and ran his hand over the wind tunnel, then looked at Daisy with a sideways glance.

“But you're so much trouble, I'm thinking we'd best keep our eyes on you throughout the day. So whenever you're not in school, I'm thinking we'll need you to come and help us out while we test these models. Don't you think that's wise, Orville?”

Orville raised his eyes to the heavens, as if asking powers that be for forbearance.

“You mean it, Mr. Wright?” Daisy asked, stunned. “You mean I can come help you with the flying contraption?”

Wilbur laughed. “On one more condition.”

“What's that?” she asked, crestfallen.

“You have to remember to call me Wilbur.”

“Deal!” she said, squealing with delight.

* * *

Over the next two months, Daisy learned there is as much magic to staying true to a dream as there is in spells or staffs or pixie dust. She heard people snickering about the Wrights, and about her work. But she didn't care.

Every day she got up early and went to the shop. When school started, she left, then came back and stayed late to clean. By October, Orville had the tunnel working, and they took to testing. There were wings that got twisted, and wings with droopy backsides. There were blocky models, and models with two wings and with three. There were models made of wood, and of canvas stretched over frames, and models made of metal that Mr. Taylor would pound into various shapes. Daisy helped set up the tunnel, and she cranked the engine. And sometimes she wrote down information in the logs.

By the time the leaves turned red, the Wrights were ready to test their glider once again.

“Wilbur?” Daisy asked one day.

“Hmm?”

“Do you think I could go to Kitty Hawk with you and Orville?”

He smiled. “I think you've earned that, Daisy Mae. But I'll have to ask your daddy and your mama first.”

She knew then she was going to Kitty Hawk.

The rest of the day she found herself imagining the contraption flying over flat sand. That night she dreamed of smooth, looping pictures of air streams, and in that dream, if she squinted just right, she could see those streams flowing across wings as she piloted the contraption on a flight over mountains of gold and forests of pure green.

Gail Sanders and
Michael Z. Williamson

Mei-Hua Walsingham sighed wistfully. She enjoyed her position at the Royal Botanical Gardens at Kew, working with the rainbow of flowers and riot of decorative shrubs. But sometimes she missed the Harton School. Sometimes she missed it more than she missed her parents, which was distressing.

She took that uncomfortable discovery to her parents' shrine in the corner of her boarding room. Lighting some incense, she sat in front of the little Chinese table that she had so carefully arranged. It held a white peony and the official portraits Mrs. Harton had located for her once her memory had returned.

“Mother, Father, it's not that I don't miss you, but I know that you're still here watching over me. It's just that you're not a part of my life, and the school became my home after you both were murdered. I miss my friends, and I miss Memsa'b and Sahib Harton. I found a place there, but I'm still not sure that I'll find one here.”

It had all come out in a rush, because she had to say it, and had no one else to say it to.

A little breeze caressed her check, but it could have been just from the open window. That it smelled of her father's pipe tobacco and her mother's white peony perfume rather than the London air was also surely a coincidence. Feeling strangely comforted, she rose to her feet and prepared for her day.

She had challenges ahead.

* * *

Last May, the King had died.

There was nothing to be done about it. He smoked heavily and had been ill for months. It was not related to the previous Elemental attack on His person, but Mei felt hurt just the same. He had been gracious to her, had offered the financial support and the position she now enjoyed, unheard of for a woman, much less one of mixed blood.

He died clutching one of the peonies she'd had delivered to the Palace to protect him. They were the legacy of her parents and could ward against evil. They couldn't ward against simple ill health and old age.

Now in the present, her peonies were being moved to a new location by the Pagoda. It had been built by an Englishman a century and a half before, and while it appeared to be a pagoda at a distance, up close it was obviously English and not Chinese. It was half native, half foreign, and out of place. Mei realized that description could apply to her, too.

She had to coordinate the move with Mr. Burkill of the Herbarium. He wasn't trained in magic and hadn't been given all the details of the peonies' power, but he knew they were special and essential to the Royals, and he accepted them as his charges. The peonies weren't famous, but they were noted in several high circles. That was enough for the staff.

“Good day, Miss Walsingham,” he greeted her. “Are we ready to start the move?”

“We are, sir,” she agreed. “One plot every three days for the next three weeks.”

“As you say, miss.” He was agreeing because he'd been told to. He'd rather move them all at once and had said so. Mei was worried about a drop in the peonies' energy if they were all to be uprooted and distressed at the same time. Mr. Burkill was an expert botanist, and well read, but what she did wasn't in any book.

“I'll manage it,” she said with a smile. “It means they'll have plenty of blooms for the Coronation.”

“Well, the beds are ready by the Pagoda. I think that's a nice match, don't you?”

“It's all right,” she said noncommittally. They all meant well, she realized. They didn't grasp the intricacies of China, and to be fair, most had never visited it and never would.

“Let's hope the rain holds off,” he said, pointing up at the gravid gray clouds overhead.

The bed was nicely dug, the soil black and rich. The gardeners had their wheelbarrows lined up like taxicabs and were carefully digging up each peony, placing it in a pot, and laying it in a barrow.

By eleven, the entire first bed had been relocated and replanted, and she fussed along the rows, using the edging bricks as stepping stones. She made sure to touch each plant, reassuring them that they were as they should be. She told them to hold off on blooming until they were ready and refreshed.

By Midsummer, they should be fully recovered and lush for the Coronation of King George V.

The transfer of the first bed complete, she moved on to her regular duties.

From the second bed she chose a full, healthy specimen, dug it up most carefully, and transferred it to a large pot. That was placed in a wagon and rolled off to be taken to the Palace. The new King didn't know why peonies were always in bloom at his residences. He'd be told when the time was right.

A light rain rolled in from the steely sky, and Mei sought shelter in the Temperate House.

Burkill had tea served and invited the laborers to join them. He was a middle-class, Cambridge-educated botanist, but he politely ignored some of the class rules and kept in regular conversation with the workers. He did sit at his own table, though, and chose who would join him. Mei was the only subordinate who gained that privilege.

“Your flowers are very strange, Miss Walsingham,” he said. “I've taken to analyzing them. They're stronger than other peonies I've seen, but still very tender and delicate. I can't explain it.”

“My mother bred them,” she said. “I don't know exactly what she did.”

“I see,” he said. “Have you seen the Chinese delegation for the Coronation, miss? They've been through the garden twice this week.”

“Only from a distance,” she admitted. “They wouldn't know me, so I have no reason to visit with them.” That, and she was a half-breed. Some English accepted her as a “colonial,” others as the daughter of a diplomat. A goodly number treated her as a foreigner of lower station. The Chinese nobles and Imperial servants would think no better of her. Her mother's exile and marriage to a foreigner would mark her just as outcast to the Chinese, if not more so.

Ironically, the diplomatic delegation all wore English-style suits in their visits and business. Mei wasn't sure if she was glad or annoyed that they weren't in Chinese dress.

“They might not be overly friendly, given your father's station,” he agreed.

“I'm all English now,” she said. If for no other reason than the forces she'd fought previously would be delighted to have her on their ground. She was here to stay, where Elemental Mages, her Talent, and her peonies kept her safe.

And she did love the Gardens.

 • • • 

Her boarding room was in a house three miles from the Gardens' main entrance. She was glad of her bicycle, which made the trip much easier, though many of the new automobiles were a problem in traffic.

She arrived home at ten after seven. Mrs. Seton, her landlady, had baked fish on the table. The other residents were girls who worked as housekeepers or seamstresses and weren't home yet.

“That smells lovely,” Mei said. “But I have work to do. I hope you won't think it rude if I take it upstairs.”

Mrs. Seton smiled. “Of course, dear. But don't work too hard. You need rest and fresh air.”

“I get fresh air all day, madam,” Mei said with a smile.

“Yes, but what about the rest?”

“I will, thank you.” She placed a slab of lemon-seasoned haddock on a plate with some fried potatoes and took it upstairs.

Once in her room, she set the plate down and removed her shoes. She did intend to rest. She also had to review the schedule for the protective peonies. Several plants were dispatched to the Royal quarters biweekly. Out of season, they were forced to bloom in a greenhouse. As they wilted, they were brought back to be nursed into renewed vigor, and others took their place. The entire replanting matter was interrupting that schedule. Then she was tasked with the water lilies in the same area. Those would be moved next, to a new pond. She was less tense over those, though she still wanted their move to be gentle. It showed her priorities, she realized, as the lilies would require more care in the move than regular peonies would.

 • • • 

A beautiful, formal garden was spread out beneath her. Mei could see two people in this garden. It was a hot and sunny day near the height of the sun, and there was a quality to the air that told Mei that this was not in England, or even in Reality.

The man said, “Well, hulloo there! Gads, what a lot of beautiful flowers. Are these all your doing?”

The woman started, not expecting to hear voices in the gardens at this hour of the day. Usually the workers did the rough tasks just after daylight broke, and the nobility, diplomats, and bureaucrats preferred early evening.

She pulled her mouth into a neutral smile, gracefully rose from her kneeling position, and bowed. She hoped that he would mistake her for one of the lowly workers and thus escape his presence and his memory. She had not figured on his English “arrogance” and his willful ignorance of Imperial “civilized” behavior.

Henry Walsingham hadn't been appointed the King's Representative to the Emperor of China without proving his skills in a different pool of sharks than the Imperial court. The unknown gardener's grace and her expert and unobtrusive application of Earth Magic had actually gotten Walsingham's attention weeks before. However, mindful of the proprieties he was bending, he had waited to approach until he was sure that they would be unobserved. After a quiet word to one of the sylphs hanging around him to keep watch, he had enacted his ambush.

With a much moderated tone and a properly respectful return bow to one who might be an equal, Walsingham inquired in perfectly executed Mandarin, “It is my imperfect understanding that your Mastery is responsible for these humble gardens achieving their present grandeur. Would the Master Gardener consider imparting some of her wisdom to me?”

Visibly realizing that she had strayed from the polite blankness that was proper to astonishment, the young woman schooled her expression. “If the worthy gentleman wishes to receive wisdom, he might try someone more appropriate to his station.”

With another bow, she gracefully turned and walked away.

Walsingham was forced to concede the encounter—but not the battle. The glint of amusement in her almond eyes was almost a dare for the war to continue.

 • • • 

Mei woke from the dream with a start. Why was she dreaming of how her parents had met? While she had been told the stories, these dreams were too vivid to be just a mere retelling. Shaking her head, she looked around her small room.

She was still dressed, and her clock said it was close to two a.m. She shivered slightly. She didn't remember how she got to bed, but she was atop the blankets, and England could be quite chilly even in summer. She slipped into her nightgown and under the covers.

Why that dream? It was almost as if she were watching it in person. It bothered her. Was she obsessing over the past? Was it some sort of coping mechanism? What was she missing?

She drifted fitfully back to sleep.

 • • • 

The next morning, Mei took tea and toast with butter and marmalade. It wasn't the same as rice porridge, but she did like the contrasting flavors of the tart orange and the savory bread.

She reflected back on her dreams of last night. Why was she imagining how her parents had met? It was almost as if her parents were trying to tell or teach her something. Well, she would wait to see what developed. Signs from the other world came as they would and couldn't be forced.

She pedaled her way to the Gardens. Today she had to supervise moving another bed of flowers, review the orders for compost and minerals, and then encourage the recently transferred plants. The previous bed was being converted to something else, but Mr. Burkill would see to that. Her specialty was the Asian varieties that were becoming so popular now that England was promoting its Chinese connections, and above all, to keep the white peonies for the Royals.

After rolling through the front gate of Kew Gardens, she parked her bike and secured it with a lock. From there, she went on foot to her station. She reflected on how much she enjoyed her walk in the mornings. It would become unbearable come winter, but for now it gave her a chance to see the other plantings before starting work. She courteously greeted the planters and other gardeners, and for every smile returning her greeting, she received a frown or a hostile look. Mei sighed. She hoped that it wouldn't take long for the others to understand that she was no threat to their position or standing. For an Empire that “the sun never set on,” England's people had a very narrow viewpoint.

She walked down the path toward the Pagoda, and took the long sweep toward her beds. Then she gasped.

The peonies were blighted. Not only would they not make a proud display for the coronation, they might not survive at all. Nor was it just the new bed. The old beds were suffering, too.

She didn't understand. Flowers responded to her touch, if not her presence. That was her Talent. She'd had her hands on them only two days before, but now they were wilting into a wrinkled, stained, soggy mess.

“Oh, no!” she cried, and ran forward.

“Miss!” Burkill shouted.

Mei stopped and turned.

“Begging your pardon, miss, but the Director said you should stay back.”

“Why is that?”

Reluctantly he answered. “They're saying you did it, miss—the Chinese diplomats. They're saying that you're out to get revenge because of your mother's exile from the Imperial Court.”

“Mr. Burkill—Isaac, do you truly believe that I would kill my mother's legacy?” In her desperation, Mei broke both protocol and propriety. “These peonies are the only gift I have from her.”

“I know, miss, but I don't know what else to do. I have to obey the Director.”

Mei-Hua Walsingham drew herself up with dignity. “Yes, but I know who the Director has to obey.”