Exile for Dreamers (11 page)

“Shall we go in through the garden door?” she asked.

With the wolf-dogs at our heels, we walked silently through the predawn fog. As we neared the back steps, she said, “If you should happen to dream about Captain Grey or Lord Wyatt—”

“It doesn't work like that.” I spoke too harshly, but I knew what she wanted. “I cannot
try
to have a dream. I don't control them. They fly at me without warning. It's like being shoved off a cliff into the pit of hell.
Into madness.
Each dream, each vision, carries me closer to that abyss that devoured my mother—”

“Tess! Stop.” She grasped my shoulders. “I would never ask that of you. You mustn't even think such a thing.” She forced a calming breath and leaned close, so that we were almost nose to nose. “I know you can't control these visions of yours. And I'm fully aware of how much they upset you. I would never
ask
you to dream. Only that,
if you do,
you would come to me and tell me what you've seen so that we might try to decipher it.”

“Oh.” I swallowed and my heart slowed its thundering gallop.

She let go of me, still standing near enough that I saw the sad soft curve of her lips.

We climbed the steps and she opened the garden door, but neither of us went in. I bowed my head, embarrassed about my outburst. “Then you're not going to lecture me about how we must all make sacrifices?”

“Heavens no, child.” She held the door open wider. “I'm not willing to sacrifice your sanity, Tess. That is too great a price to ask of anyone.”

 

Eight

STAYING AWAKE

Miss Stranje and I parted at the garden door. She claimed she needed a brisk walk to clear her head, and she wanted to keep watch for anyone who might be roaming about uninvited. I went in and made my way upstairs, where I tiptoed into the dormitorium.

“Good, you're back.” Jane was already awake and dressed. “I was just about to come rescue you.”

“Why? The sun is not yet up.” I stood beside my bed and saw there was a teacup filled with Cho's sleeping potion on the side table.

“Morning will be here soon enough. Anyway, we agreed you should return before sunrise. I was worried.”

“What would you have done? Stormed Ravencross Manor with a torch and pitchfork?”

“Don't underestimate what I can do with a pitchfork.”

I managed a half smile and sat down on the bed. I was tired, and the promise of sleep beckoned to me. But the threat of dreaming stayed my hand. “Go back to bed, Jane.”

“No, I'm up. I may as well go down to the workroom and finish my notes for Captain Grey's steward. With Mr. Sinclair underfoot, requiring assistance, I've no idea when I'll find time to write up instructions for the harvest if I don't do it now.”

I raised my fingers in a halfhearted farewell, still staring at the teacup. It was true that I couldn't conjure my dreams. Even so, I had a strong suspicion that because Miss Stranje had asked about Captain Grey it might summon just such a dream. I shivered at the thought. I liked Captain Grey. He and Sebastian, despite working secretly for the government behind the lines to discover what the enemy was up to, were forthright and honorable men.

What if she was right?

Suppose a dream might prevent Captain Grey's death. Was my desire to stay sane more important than his life? Or Lord Wyatt's? Could a dream change the course of the war? If I might spare the lives of dozens, or hundreds, or maybe countless others, how could I, in good conscience, resist the visions?

Madness or not.

I knew the answer.

More than anything else in the world, I wanted to stop dreaming. To stop living with the nightmares. To outrun the approaching madness. I wanted to clutch with both fists the few slender threads that tethered me to the normal world. But weighed in the balance, against the lives of men who were trying to do some good in the world I realized my small, insignificant life didn't matter.

The truth nearly suffocated me. And I knew that resist though I might, I would have to sleep sooner or later. My temples throbbed and my stomach roiled even though it was empty. I knew what must be done. I also knew the price of dreaming.

I lifted the teacup that would help me sleep to my lips, but stopped. I need not pay the price today.

Not just yet.

Tomorrow was soon enough. I was in no hurry to experience a hundred strangers' gruesome deaths. With a dismal clink, I set it back on the saucer.

Coward
.

I sprang up and paced, searching for an escape from this fate, terrified of what I might see or not see. Finally, I settled on the idea that since it was already morning, I would not sleep at all today. That way, I was neither dreaming nor refusing to dream. I decided to go down to the workroom with Jane, and so I quietly padded out of the dormitorium, leaving Sera and Georgie and Maya sound asleep. Blissfully unaware of my cowardice.

Tomorrow.

I would dream tomorrow.

*   *   *

Downstairs on the first floor, I'd not gone far when I heard someone creeping toward the main foyer. I knew Jane's gait and Miss Stranje's. These were heavier footsteps. They didn't belong to Greaves, who has a very distinctive shuffle, or Philip, or any of the housemaids. No, these were unfamiliar feet coming straight toward me. I ducked behind a pillar and silently unsheathed the knife still strapped to my calf.

Mr. Sinclair.

What was he doing up at this hour without a candle?

He appeared to be poking about, sticking his head in open doorways. Hunting for something. I followed him, my knife at the ready. This was peculiar behavior for a guest. I wondered if Jane might be right, that perhaps our guest might not be who Lord Wyatt had supposed him to be.

Sinclair turned down the east hall to the workroom and nearly collided with Jane. He was the first to recover from the surprise. “Good morrow, Lady Jane. You are up early.”

She harrumphed. “I might say the same of you, Mr. Sinclair.”

“Alexander. You may call me Alexander.”

“I daresay, that is no less cumbersome than calling you Mr. Sinclair. Hardly more efficient. Not only that, but it would be highly improper, as we are not yet friends.” She said all this in an markedly instructive tone—her governess tone, the one Jane was overly fond of employing. I often speculated that she must've admired her own governess to excess.

“Alexander is my name,” he replied, in an equally instructive manner. “I did not grant it to you for efficiency sake,
my lady.
If we are to be all about efficiency, I ought to go back to calling you
miss.
It would save me two entire syllables.”

Jane sniffed. “You've not answered my question, Mr. Sinclair. What are you doing down here at this hour?”

“Couldn't sleep. Thought I might have a gander at those maps in your drawing room.”

“Drawing room? That was not … surely you can't think that is a drawing room when it is quite obviously a workroom, or a study.” Jane avoided calling it a classroom, which was its primary function. Obviously, she didn't want to give him the impression of still being in the schoolroom.

“Oh, begging your pardon,
my lady.
Allow me to rephrase my answer. I thought I might find something of interest in those maps in your workroom.”

He would, indeed, find those maps interesting. Although, after he read them, I might have to use this blade on him to secure his silence. I did give the fellow credit for being straightforward enough to give an honest answer.

“You can't go prowling around the house, prying into our private papers. It simply isn't done. Miss Stranje wouldn't like it.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, appearing at least a little chagrined. “I suppose that other one wouldn't like it much either—the Chinese lady.”

“No. She would not. I daresay Madame Cho would come after you with a bamboo cane and give you a well-deserved thrashing.”

“A well-deserved thrashing, is that what you think? What do you have against me,
my lady
?” He said “my lady” in that hard American twang of his as if her title was something repugnant he wanted to scrape off of his shoe.

Jane's voice lifted a bit too high, a bit too strident. “I … Against you? What,
indeed
. Where should I start…”

“Spit it out.” Even from where I hid, I could hear the smirk in his tone.

“See. There it is.
Spit.
That is just the sort of uncivilized thing you are wont to say, isn't it?”

I peeked around the corner. His arms were crossed and he towered over her like an imperious king, albeit a rather gangly and ill-dressed imperious king. “Afraid to tell the truth, my lady? Or is it that you don't have a reason worth spouting?”

“Hah!” Jane huffed. “Oh, I have reasons. Several perfectly rational reasons. I meant to spare you, but since you ask—”

“Spare me? Ha!” He rocked back on his heels. “
Tsk, tsk,
my lady, you mustn't soil yourself with lies. The truth is you haven't meant to spare me since I walked through the door. Are you too lily-livered to speak your mind?”

“
Lily-livered?
How dare you.”

Now he'd done it. I knew Jane well. That up-and-down heaving of her shoulders, the gasps and starts, the way she balled her fists—these signs did not bode well for Mr. Sinclair.

“If you want the truth, Mr. Sinclair, I shall be delighted to deliver it.” She ground out his name. “I find it difficult to believe that any engineer worth his salt can't figure out how to tie a cravat properly. Or wouldn't know how to button his waistcoat properly. I ask you, what kind of engineer can't manage his own buttons?”

“The kind of man who doesn't give a two-headed nickel about what's on the outside, because he's far more concerned about what's on the inside.” Mr. Sinclair's arms remained crossed, and he stared down at her from his great height as if she were a toadying magpie. “
Lady Jane.
”

“I have found,” she answered with cold, queenly dignity, “that the outside is a fairly clear indication of what is on the inside.”

She stretched her chin up, standing on her toes in a vain attempt to match his height. “If one is a careful, meticulous sort, as most engineers are, one polishes one's shoes so that they might last more than one winter.” She glanced down at his scuffed footwear with disdain.

He tilted his head and I saw that expression, the one I'd noted yesterday, the one that gave me the impression he found life amusing, and that even Jane's harsh diatribe entertained him.

He answered her in a calm, clear tone, like one might use with a child. “I know a great many engineers, my lady, and their dressing habits vary as much as feathers do on birds. What's more, if one must steal the shoes off the feet of one's unconscious prison guard or else traipse barefoot halfway across France, one might not have much to say about the treatment those shoes received prior to his acquiring them.”

“Oh.” Jane drew back, her fingers covering her mouth. “I hadn't thought—”

“No, my lady. You hadn't.”

She inched toward the workroom. “That still doesn't give you a right to go poking through our maps in the wee hours of the morning.”

“Are you suggesting I might do it later in the day?”

“No,” she squeaked. “You know perfectly well what I mean.”

He scratched his head, looking puppyish and befuddled. “No, Lady Jane, I confess you are something of a riddle. I see now how you counted my wardrobe, my shoes, and my error in addressing you on the negative side of the slate. That still doesn't explain why you come at me with a temper hotter than a badger.”

“A badger.” Her voice lifted again. If she didn't get it under control soon, the entire population of Stranje House would be awakened and joining us in the hall.

Her agitation seemed to ignite his tongue even more. “You know what a badger is like, don't you?”

“No, I'm not personally acquainted with any badgers, but I can tell you this—”

“Oh, well, let me explain. It's a fine fierce little critter. Looks something like a skunk. Black and white. Only about this big.” He held out his hands showing her the approximate size. “But,
oh,
you must watch your step around her,
my lady
. She has a mouthful of vicious teeth and a growl that will melt bones.”

“A skunk.” The depth of insult twisting on Jane's features nearly made me laugh aloud.

“That's right, a skunk with fearsome teeth. And I've seen one of those furry little gals take on a bear just for strolling too close to her den.”

Jane didn't move away from him, even though he was clearly making sport of her. In fact, they both stood excessively close to one another.

He leaned in to have a better look at her. “And that is what you're doing, Lady Jane. Taking on a bear, and you don't even know it.”

“Ha.” She lifted her palm, and I swear I thought she might slap him into the next county.

He laughed. “See what I mean. The way you're sputtering and carrying on, anyone would think I'd stepped on your gouty big toe.”

She backed away, scalded. “Oh, now you're just being rude. You know perfectly well I don't have gout.”

“Begging your pardon, my lady. I thought all you English aristocrats had trouble with gout. On account of being so plump and drinking more wine than water—”

“Mr. Sinclair!” Jane's hands fisted and she seethed like a teapot boiling over. “
I. Am. Not. Plump,
” she said in a menacingly low voice. “Nor do I overindulge in spirits. As for you daring to publicly comment on the state … the shape … the weight of my … my person…” She practically choked on each word. “There is nothing more to say than that your manners, sir, are atrocious!”