The Wizard of Seattle (5 page)

She drew a quick breath. “Good. You had me worried there for a while. I sure won’t forget my promise, you can bet on that.”

He took her arm and began steering her toward an exit. “No, I’m sure you won’t.”

Serena looked up at him with curiosity as they wended their way from the ballroom and toward the front of the hotel. She kept her voice low and chose her words carefully, conscious of the other departing guests all around them. “You’ve never asked me to promise not to … um … practice what you’ve taught me. The way I did tonight. Why not?”

Merlin didn’t answer, not until the valet had delivered his car and they were on their way home. Concentrating on the rain-slick streets as he handled the big Lincoln, he said slowly, “How could I ask you to promise you’d never use any of your powers without my approval? It would be like asking a young bird to promise not to fly. But I
can
insist that you learn the dangers of flying, along with the necessary skills needed to fly well. And I can do my best to guide you through the hazards.”

Serena didn’t respond to that out loud, but she thought about his words all the way home. Perhaps the effects of the champagne were wearing off, but in any case she felt decidedly guilty about her indiscriminate use of her powers.

The old Victorian house welcomed them with a number of lamps left burning. Most of its rooms were decorated with style and simplicity and were hardly different from any of the neighboring houses. The rooms that
were
different were kept locked whenever they had guests, and not even Merlin’s longtime housekeeper was encouraged to enter them.

Merlin strode toward one of those rooms as soon as they entered the house. His study. “We should work tomorrow,” he said to Serena, loosening his tie as he paused at the door and looked at her.

Answering the implicit question, she said, “I don’t have any plans for the weekend, so that’s fine.”

“Good. I’ll see you in the morning then.”

Serena said, “Good night,” but found herself addressing the closing door of his study. She stood there
for several moments, slowly removing her shawl. The house was very quiet.

It wasn’t unusual for Merlin to shut himself in the study and work far into the night, especially during recent months. Since his “normal” life and business occupied a great deal of his time during the day, his real life’s work had to be scheduled for odd hours, weekends, holidays, and vacations.

After nine years Serena no longer questioned his dedication, his strength, or his stamina. Whatever time and effort it took for Richard Patrick Merlin to make his unusual life succeed, he was prepared to give it. And then some. So he bought, sold, and developed real estate during the day, and with all his free time he worked to perfect his art.

It said much for his skills in both areas of his life that he had attained the level of Master wizard, the highest level possible, years before. In fact, long before Serena had come to study with him. At the same time, he had achieved a high degree of respect and esteem within the powerless community of Seattle.

None of whose citizens had any idea that an ancient art was practiced in their midst.

Serena gazed at the closed door for a few moments more, then went up the stairs to her bedroom. She undressed and changed for bed, took her makeup off and her hair down. She turned on the television to catch the late news, but paid little attention to the program as she moved restlessly around.

How much longer could she go on? The simple answer was—as long as necessary. Like Merlin, she grudged no time or effort in her quest to become a Master wizard; that had been her ambition from earliest childhood. But unlike him, she was constantly distracted and disturbed by … other matters.

Other matters
. How laughably inadequate that phrase was, she reflected somewhat bitterly.

His powers set him apart from most men, and Serena thought her knowledge of his difference made him often seem somewhat remote, even with her. At least she hoped that was it.

He was the most powerful wizard to walk the face of modern-day earth, and that had to be a kind of burden even as it was an accomplishment matched by very few in all of history. Serena had long wanted to ask him if it
was
a burden, but she had always hesitated. She had, over the years, learned not to pry, not to ask personal questions. It was useless in any case; what Merlin chose not to answer, he simply ignored.

And so, wholly occupied with perfecting his art and passing the knowledge on to her, his Apprentice, he rarely, if ever, saw her as a woman. At best she was a young student with a great deal to learn, at worst a bothersome child.

Serena had learned to live with that, or thought she had. Nights like this one made her doubt it. There was a strong part of her, intensifying year by year, that demanded she make Merlin see her as the woman she was, and that part often let itself be known. But each time it happened, she sensed something in him she didn’t understand, something she couldn’t put a name to and was frightened by.

She had felt it in him tonight, so briefly, when she had reminded him she was no longer a child. And, as usual, she had reacted immediately and out of sheer instinct to right things between them once again. She’d felt driven to retreat, to reclaim childhood or at least a childish mood, to make him forget that he had glimpsed a woman.

The moment always passed, and with it that indefinable tension she felt in him. But more and more, Serena was left frustrated and bewildered, angry at him for some failing she couldn’t understand or even describe clearly to herself.

What
was
it? Was it something in Richard, as she sensed—or something in herself?

In the nine years of her apprenticeship, she had come to know him probably as well as anyone could. Publicly he had been her uncle and guardian; privately he’d been much more. He had been her parent, brother, teacher, companion, her harshest critic, and her best friend.

She had, at sixteen, fallen wildly in love with him. A
natural enough thing to happen. That he seemed unaware of her feelings had puzzled her, but she had eventually come to understand that his ignorance stemmed from the same reason he had so instantly accepted a ragged, hungry, rain-soaked sixteen-year-old orphan as his pupil.

Her mind was completely shielded from him.

In time Serena was sincerely grateful for that innate protection. Merlin often knew what she was thinking for the simple reason that she tended to blurt out her thoughts, but he couldn’t read her mind. And aside from the benefits of hiding her childish fantasies from him, she also learned to respect the shield itself, for she discovered through Merlin’s absent remarks on the subject that few living souls could hide their thoughts and feelings from a Master wizard. It was a sign of great potential power, and not to be taken lightly.

But if her shield hid from him the chaotic emotions he evoked in her, it did nothing to help her cope with them. And because of that failing of his—that lacking, that missing something that made him refuse to see her as a woman—she had the added burden of feeling in limbo, suspended in some bewildering emotional purgatory between woman and child.

So Serena returned to the question once again. How much longer could she go on? The pressure was building inside her; she could feel it. She thought he felt it, too; his occasional business trips out of town had been more frequent with every passing year, and she had to believe the trips had something to do with the increasing tension that lay just under the tranquil surface of their lives.

If he had not been so often remote, especially in recent months, she might have gathered courage and brought up the subject. But he had been.

She couldn’t risk it. What she feared most was being sent away, being banished from his life. He was capable of such a merciless act, she thought, given a good enough reason. Though he had never been cruel to her and she had seen no evidence of it, she sensed a streak
of ruthlessness in him—perhaps the price he paid for the incredible power he wielded.

Serena was too familiar with the scope of that power to have any wish to put her fate to the test. She wasn’t that desperate, not yet. But time was running out. The pressure was building, and something had to give.

Still ignoring the television that was now broadcasting some old movie with melodramatic music, Serena went to one of the windows and stared out. She felt very much alone, and oddly afraid.

It was raining again.

T
he blinding flash of pink, purple, and blue sparks was wrong, all wrong, and Serena winced even before the deep voice, coming from a dark corner of the room, could reprimand her.

“You aren’t
concentrating.”

“I’m sorry, Master.” The proper humility, apology, and respect were present in her voice, but all were belied by the wry amusement shining in her vivid green eyes. In deference to him she was obedient to the longstanding rules governing the behavior of an Apprentice wizard—but only in this workroom. And only when he was teaching her.

From the very beginning she had refused to assume any kind of subservient manner, and Merlin had been wise enough not to insist on many of the ancient and decidedly outdated customs between Master and Apprentice.

“Why
aren’t you concentrating?” He emerged from the shadows where he’d been observing and stepped into the candlelight, showing her the lean, handsome face and brooding dark eyes of her Master wizard.

“I just have a lot on my mind, I guess. The party last night, for instance,” she explained, gesturing idly with
one hand and jumping in surprise when a thread of white-hot energy arced from her index finger to ignite a nearby lampshade.

Merlin hastily waved a hand, and both watched as water appeared out of thin air to douse the tiny fire. The Master turned to his Apprentice in exasperation, and Serena spoke quickly.

“I didn’t mean to do it.”

“That,” Merlin said witheringly, “is the whole point.”

Gazing in admiration at the dripping lampshade, Serena ignored the point. “Why won’t you teach me to summon water? I can summon fire so easily, it’s only logical that I should learn to put out my mistakes.”

Ignoring the request, Merlin said, “Stop saying
summon
, as if the elements are lurking about just waiting to be called to heel.”

Serena blinked. “I thought they were.”

“I know. But they aren’t.”

“Then …”

A brief spasm of frustration crossed Merlin’s face. “Serena, I can’t seem to get it through your head that wizards
create
. This is what sets us apart from witches, warlocks, sorcerers, and the other practitioners of … magic.” The definition was wholly unwilling; Merlin hated putting labels on anything, particularly his art. “We create. We do not need to harness existing elements. We are not limited to that.”

“All right. So teach me to create water.”

“No.”

Serena sighed with regret and unsnapped the Velcro fasteners of her long, black Apprentice’s robe. Sweeping it out behind her, she sank down on one of the cushions scattered over the floor and contemplated her jean-clad legs. “I suppose you have a reason?”

Merlin, wearing his midnight blue Master’s robe, moved about the dim room, blowing out their working candles and turning on several lamps. Their workroom, tucked up on the third floor underneath the rafters of the house, was always dark owing to the fect that the small, narrow windows were always shuttered. So even
though it was the middle of the day, some artificial light was necessary.

The candles were used during work for two simple reasons: they provided a more organic light; and the energy expended during the practice of the wizard’s art, particularly when the wizard was an Apprentice and lacked perfect control, tended to cause any nearby light bulbs to burst. In fact, those energies tended to play havoc with
anything
electrical, which was one of the reasons Merlin had chosen this attic room in which to teach Serena; it was as far as possible from most of the modern appliances in the house.

“Yes,” Merlin said in answer to her question. “My reason is a vivid memory of what happened the first time I allowed you to try and create fire.”

Her lips twitched, and Serena sent him a look from beneath her lashes. “That was years ago. I was just a rank beginner in those days. And besides, you put the fire out before it could do any serious damage.”

“True. However, I doubt my ability to hold back the floodwaters of your enthusiastic creation.”

Merlin unfastened his long robe and hung it over a stand in one corner of the room. Like Serena, he wore beneath it jeans and a sweater, which revealed a tall, broad-shouldered form that held the considerable strength of well-defined muscles as well as might from less-obvious sources. Serena couldn’t help watching him, her expressive eyes still guarded by lowered lashes.

Though he might have been any age and looked to be about thirty-five, he was certainly in his prime. Still, Serena would not have dared to guess how many years—or lifetimes—he had put behind him. In response to a long-ago childish question, he had said with a grimace that he was quite mortal. She hadn’t believed it then, and wasn’t sure she did now.