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“Thank you for the warning,” Damien said, more certain than before that Lord Brand’s feelings too, were engaged, though he seemed less than fully aware of his attachment.

Matters were growing more complex by the moment.

What manner of muddle had his mother gotten them into now?

“I will deal with Ropwell. Ah, there is Dominick now.”

The Gypsy reined in the Wodesby carriage and brought it to a halt before the front door.

“There is no need for the ride, Sir,” Adam said. “‘Tis but a short distance and I think that the walk might do me good. But I will take the salve. Nasty stuff, as I recall, but I have never seen an ointment that heals wounds more rapidly.”

“As you wish,” Damien said, inclining his head in agreement. “A good walk often leads to the resolution of questions.”

Adam looked at him, startled.

“One need not be a magician, Lord Brand, to recognize confusion on a man’s face,” Damien said, with a parting salute.

He turned, but kept the Marquess in the corner of his eye as he took the jar from Dominick and strolled briskly up the street.

“Follow him, Angel,” the Mage directed quietly.

The mastiff gave a soft whine. “I am fagged myself and you were the one questioning Thorpe’s competence.

‘Fumbling feline,’ was the phrase you used, if I recall.

Now off with you, unless of course you truly wish to join me in a tete a tete with Mama. ”

Angel loped swiftly out the door.

“Thought not,” said Damien with a rueful look as he swung the door closed and started slowly back up the stair.

“Wodesby? What in the devil took you so long?”

Damien blinked, staring for a moment at the man upon the top landing.

Between the dim shadows of morning light and his weariness, he thought that Lord Brand had somehow returned.

But as his eyes adjusted, Wodesby realized that the distinguished apparition had hair of silver. “And who in blazes are you, Sir?”

“Lawrence Timmons, at your service,” Lawrence replied with a bow. “Please forgive my abruptness, but I am quite concerned about your mother. She was beginning to worry.”

“Was she?” Damien said, his brows knitting together like thunderclouds. “Well, I confess, sir, that I am beginning to be a trifle concerned myself.”

. . .

Damien stared out the window over the quiet herb garden, identifying the various plants as his mother’s voice washed over him. It had been high tide and storm since he had set foot in the door of her bedchamber, demanding explanations. Thankfully, the waves of her anger were beginning to ebb.

“. . . so do not dare to bark at me, Damien Nostradamus,” Lady Wodesby warned, setting her morning chocolate on the tray with a hazardous clinking of china.

“Mage of Albion you might be, but I am still your mother and Mistress of Witches, and you will not forget it again! The false values that young men learn these days,” she muttered.

“Treating women like chattel, ordering us about like inferior servants. One would think that they were Bearers of Life, with all their airs. I cannot think where you might have picked up these manners. Certainly, it is not what I have taught you. Muddying my Aubusson rug at the crack of dawn and daring to read me a lecture. And Lawrence! How you embarrassed him!”

“What was I to think, with a man coming down the stairs in the wee hours of the morning?” Damien replied, turning to face her. “And then guarding you from me, like a dragon ‘pon a treasure trove.”

“Dear Lawrie,” his mother said, “could you blame him when you came roaring into my chamber hurling unconscionable accusations? You are quite fearsome, my boy, when you are hot with anger. Once you had calmed down, he did agree to leave. Besides, we did nothing more than talk the night away, like children in the nursery. We are old friends.”

There was a look in her eyes that Damien could not like, a special soft glow that he had not seen since his father’s death.

With a twinge of foreboding he realized that there was much more than friendship in his mother’s voice when she spoke of Lord Brand’s uncle.

“He has no right to interfere in family business,” Damien said, attempting to change the subject.

“But I must say, the man showed great sense. He fully agreed that you ought not to have your cards back until you fully recover.”

“I need them, Damien. You can see for yourself, I am much improved.” She snapped and a burst of flame flared from her fingertips.

“You tire yourself with needless displays, Mama,” he said, stifling a yawn.

“When you are well and able enough to divine their location on your own, you may use your cards. Lucky for you that Thorpe and Miranda had the good sense to conceal them, else I doubt that I would be talking to you this side of the Void.”

“Or perhaps I could have mitigated last night’s disaster,” Lady Wodesby said tartly.

“Or perhaps you could have done nothing,” Damien said, reaching to clasp her hand, knowing that her annoyance stemmed almost entirely from worry. He sat in the chair beside the bed. “ Only a fool believes that he can fool with Fate . So, you yourself have told me, time and again.”

“Ah, my son, I must be growing old, indeed, if you are throwing my own advice back in my face,” his mother said, leaning back upon the pillows.

“Old? Never? Did I not know better, I would say that there was a spell of eternal youth upon you, Mama. If you would note which one of us has the hair that is turning to white,” Damien said, tugging significantly at his blanched forelock.

“And you dare to accuse me of taking risks, my boy, when you help Wellington to turn the tides of battles? By the time Napoleon goes down to defeat, I suspect you may be as hoary headed as the first Lord Wodesby,” Lady Wodesby declared with a shake of her head, raising her hand to stave off argument as Damien opened his mouth to speak.

“But we can save our usual quarrels for later, Damien. You say that Miranda is in love with him?”

“She was within sight of the Light, Mama,” Damien said. “Even you or I would have had difficulty resisting that lure, unless some very great power pulled us back, the one tie that is stronger than death. Can you think of any other reason for her return to the here and now?”

“She did seem to be growing fond of Lord Brand,” Lady Wodesby said thoughtfully.

“How could you allow it?” Damien asked, rising from the chair. “He is not one of us, of the Covens. You, of all people, should know how important it is?—"

“Do not dare to tell me of my obligations to the Blood!” his mother blazed.

“I married for the Covens and though I grew to love your father dearly, he was not the man my heart had yearned for, any more than I was his first wish. Yet, we made our alliance and did a good job of it too, I’d say,” she added, her voice gentling at Damien’s shocked expression.

“I pray, my son, that you never need to make the choice between love and duty. And since I have discharged mine, I may choose to satisfy myself now.”

Damien chose to ignore the discomfiting portents of her last phrase for the moment. “We are discussing Miranda, Mama.”

“So we are,” Lady Wodesby said with a deep sigh. “Your sister is eight and twenty, Damien. In case you have not noticed, there are no young mages begging for her hand.”

“Impossible, she is a Wodesby,” Damien said, rising from his chair to look out the window once again, but he could see nothing more than scenery.

There were no visions, just a sense of dread.

Something was about to happen, but he dared not reveal that vague unease to his mother.

Too much strain was already upon her and with her cards forbidden there was naught that she could do to alleviate the situation.

“Miranda should have been handfasted long ago. I have neglected my duty and now, I will see to it.”

“Do you think I have not tried?” Lady Wodesby asked sadly. “There is not one man willing to take the risk, not when there are so many other eligible witches to choose from. Miranda has no magic. But she may yet marry. Your aunt has seen signs of a wedding in her visions.”

“Surely, then, there must be someone,” Damien said, passing the sons of the Covens in mental review.

“Is that the measure of what you want for your sister? Someone? Anyone, so long as the Blood runs in their veins? Is that what we have come to, Damien?” she asked, her bitterness coming to the fore.

“Is this power that we prize worth so high a cost? In seeking that piece of the divine, we have come to deny that which makes us human. Breeding like prize mares and stallions, destroying those that are not an asset to the herd by letting them wither away in celibate solitude or forcing them to choose a man like Martin Allworth in desperation.”

“Allworth? Surely she would not have turned to Allworth?” Damien said in disbelief.

“She wants what every woman seeks, mortal or witch and we cannot fulfill that need for her within the Covens, my son. If Miranda was seeking for her doom last night, then we are to blame.”

“That was what Brand said,” Damien murmured, suppressing a pang of guilt.

To be The Mage, brother and son all at once was nigh on impossible.

Where did Miranda’s best interests lie? And what was the choice most suited to maintaining the welfare of the Covens?

And his own mother, speaking of an Outsider with that dreaming gaze?

Even though Damien found himself liking the man, such an alliance seemed unconscionable, especially for the Mistress of Witches. “We must find her a husband.”

“Aye, I know that as Mage of Albion it is your right to force some young man to take her to wife. Your sister knows her duty and she will wed him. But in doing so, would you deny her the sole chance she may have to experience the only Gift of true magic that all mortals may share?” Lady Wodesby asked, her eyes misting.

“Would you have your sister tied to a husband who may well hate her for what she is not? You know full well that it could only have been Brand who called her back from the brink.”

“Still, he may not love her, even if that is where Miranda’s affections lie,” Damien pointed out, attempting to deny the obvious truth.”

“I can determine that,” his mother said eagerly. “If you return my cards to me.”

“Why is it that the Wodesby women are so eager to throw themselves into oblivion?” Damien asked more in irritation than facetiousness.

“The Wodesby men!” Lady Wodesby answered without missing a beat. “By the Merlin, you are just like your father, stubborn as an oak. My Tarot, if you please.”

“I will never be half of what Father was, for all we might wish it,” Damien said quietly.

“But I will not allow you to destroy yourself trying to foresee the details of Brand’s fate, for I know you will not content yourself with knowing his heart.

My powers, such as they are, will have to suffice for now. ” He went to the door.

“Damien, you must not blame—" Lady Wodesby began, but it was too late, her son had gone from the room.

Even if he had remained, she doubted that the boy would hear her anyway.

He was too much like his father in that respect as well, taking upon himself burdens too great for one man to bear.

“Have I failed them both, Thorpe?” she asked sadly, pondering old pain and half-healed wounds.

But for once, her familiar had no comfort to offer her. The exhausted feline was asleep by the fire, dreaming of catnip fields.