River Running Page 3

  Frances giggled, her smile peeking out like a timid doe in the woods.

  A small click snicked beneath Manda’s hands, and she slowly released Frances’s leg, looking at the straightened limb with satisfaction. “There, now, Miss Lily, I do believe you’re all better.”

  Frances’s eyes widened. “That was all?”

  Manda grasped the girl’s hand and pulled her up. “That was all.”

  “What did you do?” Miss Fernn asked as she inspected the leg. “She was in so much pain.”

  “Her knee was out of joint. It wasn’t hard to slip it back in place.” The lie slid smoothly past Manda’s lips; she was accustomed to covering her forbidden halfmage magic after eighteen years. She touched Frances’s shoulder. “Now, if you’ll go with Miss Fernn, she’ll take you upstairs.” She leaned close, whispering audibly, “And I’ll bet she’ll sneak you a treat from the jar she keeps behind her desk in the school room.”

  Miss Fernn still looked dazed. She stared, unblinking, at Frances Lily’s leg. “It was so bad, and she cried so much—”

  “Bones out of joint hurt like fire, Miss Fernn. Go on, now, Miss Lily. I’ve got ironing to do, and Mrs. Hurley’s going to have my head if I don’t finish the sheets before bedtime.”

  Miss Fernn took Frances’s hand and led her to the door. “I don’t know how to thank you, Manda. If Mrs. Hurley had found out, and it was on my watch, she’d have sacked me, sure and certain.”

  She would, most definitely. Manda turned back to the sheets, closing off the conversation. She couldn’t explain what she’d done because then she would have to admit to the woman what she was.

  Halfmage. The dirt of Arcanan society.

  Halfmages were despised and feared, considered persona non grata by the government.

  In other words, Manda was illegal, untouchable. An outcast, if she revealed herself.

  Silence cloaked the room, broken only by the iron scraping bricks as Manda spread another sheet across the table, donned her mitt, and grabbed the iron’s heavy, black handle.

  A moment later the door closed, and Manda sank weakly onto the bench by the window. The magic had tired her more than usual. She wondered why. Perhaps it was the pressure of hiding her magic while someone stood so near. She didn’t know Miss Fernn’s view of halfmages, but if the teacher were anything like the rest of the world, she would have fled screaming.

  Manda massaged her temples, moving her fingers to the nape of her neck. Her muscles felt tight, and pain lanced her head.

  You must be cautious, Manda. Your stepfather would not understand. Manda’s mother's voice had always been thin with anxiety when Manda used her water magic. When she’d caught Manda at it, she’d hastily bunched Manda’s hands in her skirts, rubbing off any trace of moisture. You can't, you mustn't—no more magic. You know your stepfather must never know either of us have any elemental power. But you, especially, Manda. He’ll never accept a halfmage stepdaughter.

  But Manda hadn’t truly understood the stakes. When she’d found her mother dead, covered in magemarks, Manda had lost all control, flinging her water-power everywhere, trying to wash the marks from her mother’s flesh. Her stepfather, Simon Dunne, had found her there, drenched and screaming, surrounded by the arcane whirlpools of her own creation.

  And he’d known exactly what she was.

  A filthy halfbreed, he’d announced upon their arrival at the orphanage the day after her mother’s funeral. Her name is Manda, Manda Rivers, I suppose, since it’s water she slings. I need someone to take her off my hands.

  We don’t take halfmages, Mr. Dunne. They're dangerous. The reedy voice of the headmistress had terrified Manda as an eleven-year-old girl, freshly bereaved of her mother. It sounded as if it delighted in cruelty.

  Manda hadn’t heard the arrangements her stepfather had made with the proprietress, but the name inscribed above the orphanage door soon after read “Dunne’s Peachtree Orphanage.” Manda gained only the slightest satisfaction that she’d never heard anyone refer to it as that. The place maintained its original name on the tongues of the citizens of Savana, at least, even if it did not on the door inscription.

  A clatter from above jerked Manda’s attention back to the present, and she jumped swiftly to her feet. Headmistress Hurley’s voice called down the stairs, “Enid and Manda, if you ain’t ready with the midday meal in an hour, neither of you will eat a bite of it.”

  Manda had no doubt the woman meant her words. Whatever else Mrs. Hurley was, she wasn’t kind, nor was she willing to listen to any suggestion of kindness when it came to Manda.

  It all came down to one reason: Halfmage. It terrified Manda that Mrs. Hurley knew her secret.

  Manda sighed and bent over the fire to blow the embers into flame again.

  Serving a meal to forty underfed and growing girls was tiring labor, and Manda’s back ached as she scooped the last plate from the table and piled it onto the tray before pushing the cart into the pantry where she’d scrub the burnt hash from the dishes.

  The girls had tried their best to eat the food, but Manda admitted that she could never master the culinary arts. Food was either undercooked or overcooked—never just right. To date, none of the girls had complained—to her face, anyway.

  She scraped more burnt hash into the slop bucket, pouring in the leftover water from the tumbler, wrinkling her nose at the pungent odor. Enid bustled by, her sleeves rolled above her elbows, her face flushed. “I’ve got the cart, Manda. Can you empty the slop pail while I start the dishes?”

  Manda nodded and lugged the bucket toward the dining room door and into the entry hall. She should empty the slop out the kitchen door, but it was a long trek down the stairs to the back door, and the bucket’s handle cut into her fingers. The front door was so much easier.

  She shot a quick glance up the stairs toward Mrs. Hurley’s office.

  Turning the front doorknob, Manda wedged her foot in the entryway, hefted the bucket to her chest, and backed into the outer door, leaning against it.

  But the door suddenly wasn’t there, and Manda tumbled backward. The bucket flew from her arms as she bumped into something large and solid. A muffled “Cleansing Fires!” uttered in a deep double-bass slid past her ears as she and the other form rolled down the front steps of the orphanage, now slick with a powerful combination of burnt hash and water.

  Manda scrambled to her feet, horror-stricken. The impediment over which she’d just stumbled straightened, brushing down his posh superfine coat plastered with bits of hash and soaked with odorous liquid. One of his hands was bandaged, though he still used it to turn up the collar of his coat.

  “What in the Sacred Wells have you done?” the man growled, spiking his good hand inside his waistcoat for his handkerchief, fruitlessly mopping himself, muttering curses.

  “My apologies, sir.” Manda spread her hands, shrugging helplessly. “I—did not see you there.”

  A v-shaped scar beneath the man’s left eye whitened with tension. “How could you not see me? I'm hardly small.”

  His rueful tone and his pained glance at his breeches where the slop still dripped struck Manda as amusing. A laugh spilled from her throat, pulling his attention sharply to her face.

  “Indeed, you are not,” she said. He was tall and broad-shouldered. His thick, dark hair waved over his collar, and an errant strand fell loosely across his forehead. He blew it out of the way.

  “I see nothing to laugh about. You aren’t any better off.” He glanced at the slop that dripped down the front of her dress, one dark eyebrow winging upward.

  Manda flushed. “You are correct, sir. I should not have laughed.” The moisture on her fingers shimmered, vibrating deep within her skin, but she tucked away the magic. This man was wealthy, and thus likely a fullmage. She couldn’t risk using her halfmage magic where he could see. “Can I ... offer you a bath?” She choked on the inappropriate words as soon as they left her lips.

  The man, who had been brushing at his breeches, ya
nked his gaze to hers. “Pardon?”

  “I mean, I—could—or someone could, anyway—could wash your clothes, so you—wouldn’t ... have to ...” She trailed off, motioning helplessly toward the street, where curious passers-by already cut glances at them.

  “I'll manage. No worse than the muck I crawled through for five years during the war.” He straightened, giving up on the slop. “If you’ll show me to the proprietress of the orphanage, I’d appreciate it.”

  “I—certainly.” Manda started toward the step. Her boots skated out from beneath her, and she fell backward again.

  The man’s hands cinched her waist, holding her steady. He turned her, slowly, until she faced him. His hands remained pressed against her dress, which put her much too close to him.

  The looks of interest from people on the street grew less guarded. Neither Manda nor the man moved or spoke for several beats. Well—really—this is ... I—he’s—this is—awkward.

  Manda cleared her throat, but couldn’t think of a thing to say.

  “Can you make it up the stairs by yourself, or shall I carry you?” the man asked blandly, his dark eyes carefully expressionless.

  “I’m fine,” Manda snapped, stepping back, nearly slipping again, but catching herself on the handrail. “Come inside, please.”

  She mounted the steps, trying not to feel the pressure of his hands on her waist or the fiery warmth they’d exuded as she led the way inside. She rang the bell to signal for Miss Ayers, Mrs. Hurley’s maid, and fled to the kitchen where she found refuge among the remaining pots and pans of her supper disaster.

  He was a fullmage—she’d felt it in his heated touch.

  She was a halfmage, who thought entirely too much of his dark brown eyes.

  She singed her finger on a still-hot pan and snatched it back, sticking it in her mouth. What a fool she was.

  Chapter 3

  Jackson

  Jackson felt oddly bereft as the lovely maid who’d doused him in slop fled from the foyer. His hands tingled with a pleasant burn where they had touched her waist.

  Her almond-shaped eyes had tilted up slightly, like a water-sprite’s, a stunning, brilliant blue. He stared through the doorway where she had disappeared, wishing for another glimpse. What was he thinking? He was in no shape to chase pretty women, even ones as fresh as spring rain.

  “Can I help you, Master?” a voice said from behind him.

  Jackson gripped the banister so hard it groaned. Before he could release it, it cracked with a loud snap that made the heavyset maid who had just spoken lurch ungracefully. She was entirely different from the vanished water-sprite, though she wore the same bland orphanage uniform. “Yes,” he said shortly, gathering his wits. “I’m Jackson Coal. I came to speak with the proprietress.”

  The maid bobbed a curtsey and gestured to the hall above her. “Come with me, sir.”

  Jackson followed the plump maid up the stairs and to the right, his mind still undone from his encounter with the sprite who’d spilled the slop. His first irrational impulse after the slippery incident—once he’d recovered from his shock—had been to ask her to fill the position of governess. An almost tangible connection had hovered between them, bewitching him. But as Jackson’s mental faculties returned, he realized that was a terrible idea. The last thing he needed was a woman like that nearby, distracting him. Someone like this matron in front of him would do much better. Her wide skirts swished over her heavy tread, blending her into the background, whereas the other girl had set his every nerve alive. Yes, he needed someone older—but did the orphanage even hire out older women?

  He hesitated in the hallway. Perhaps this was a mistake. He closed his eyes, but the pretty water-sprite appeared on the back of his eyelids. He did not need to hire the blue-eyed, shapely nymph who had, quite literally, knocked him off his feet.

  The matron opened a door and curtseyed as he passed. He wished he could remove his soaked, reeking coat, but the moving magemark might peek over his collar.

  “Master Coal, welcome to Dunne’s Peachtree Orphanage,” said a tall, broad woman dressed in severe black. She emerged from behind a thick desk and offered the hint of a curtsey. Pride toned her face and shoulders. She was clearly accustomed to being in charge.

  So was Jackson.

  Her gaze scanned his soiled attire, and she gave a haughty sniff. “Are you well, Master Coal?”

  “I had an accident upon arrival, ma’am. Nothing to worry about.” He spoke with the command of a fullmage to a mundane, and hoped it would suffice. He did not wish to get the water-sprite into trouble.

  Mrs. Hurley pursed her lips. “What can I do for you, Master Coal? Do take a seat.” She indicated a stiff-backed wooden chair before returning to her own seat.

  Jackson felt like a schoolboy as he sat and faced the woman behind the desk. “I’m seeking a governess. I’ve become the guardian of a boy orphaned by the war.” Jackson racked his mind for the prettier words he’d planned, but they eluded him. The pungent odor of burnt hash tugged his mind back to the encounter on the front steps.

  “I assume the boy is a fullmage such as yourself,” Mrs. Hurley said, clasping her hands upon the desk. “So you’ll be wanting a fullmage governess?”

  “Well—that is to say, my ward may have special needs.”

  “Special needs?” Disdain dripped from the woman’s voice as her chin lifted.

  “He needs a mature and compassionate woman,” Jackson barked. He was mucking this up. “One who is plain,” he added before he realized how uncouth that sounded.

  Mrs. Hurley’s sagging jowls quivered. “How old is this boy?”

  “Seven, I believe.” Jackson cleared his throat.

  She traced one fat finger in a circle on her desktop. “Tell me about these special needs, Master Coal.”

  Cleansing Flames, he wanted this over and done. “He’s been orphaned by the war,” Jackson said. With his deep voice, his words carried well beyond the walls of any room. He modulated his tone with effort. “I told you, the governess must be kind, caring, nurturing—the type of woman with enough patience for a boy who’s been wounded by his past. Some maturity is required. And I need her soon, no later than next week. She cannot mind living on a farm. And it wouldn’t hurt if she knew how to cook.” Jackson had no cook on his farm.

  Mrs. Hurley smiled thinly. “Master Coal, you want a paragon. How much are you willing to pay?”

  “You mean for the governess’s wages?”

  “No, Master Coal, I mean to the orphanage. All our girls are offered as indentures. You purchase them from the orphanage.”

  Black fury had been rising inside Jackson throughout this interview. At this, it boiled over. He sprang from the uncomfortable chair, his hands squeezed into fists. “What?” he roared. A sudden vision of the water-sprite floated before his eyes, bought and sold into Wells-only-knew what kind of vile situation.

  Mrs. Hurley rose, too, tight-lipped and rigid. “Master Coal, calm yourself!” She crossed the room and batted at a smoking bookshelf.

  Jackson blinked. His anger had ignited several books; he hadn’t been consciously aware of entering the Wells in his mind. Hastily he subdued the flames. Blazing Fires, what was wrong with him?

  “My apologies,” he said. “I—perhaps I should seek a governess elsewhere.” His embarrassment was extreme; what kind of mage couldn’t even control his own power?

  Mrs. Hurley whirled in a sweep of stiff black poplin. “Master Coal, if I may be so bold, there’s nowhere else in Savana you’ll find girls as well-trained or as cheap as mine. I have an unblemished record, always filling the position, even difficult ones such as yours. It’s obvious you’re unfamiliar with how these matters are handled. That’s only natural given your recent history.” With a look of distaste, she took his damp coat sleeve and ushered him toward the door. “I would be—honored—to handle this matter for you.” She patted his arm. “Leave it to me, Master Coal. You do know it is against the law to compel anyone into an inde
nture, so I will have to honor a typical selection process to ensure the candidate faces no coercion, but I will find someone. The price will be four hundred fullmarks; if you would be so good as to have the amount delivered today, I’d be much obliged. Now, do be on your way.”

  Jackson almost intervened. An indenture. He hadn’t realized it worked like that. None of the money he paid Mrs. Hurley would go to the governess. But where else would he find a girl on such short notice? Acquiescing to customs he found abhorrent seemed to be his new normal. He could remedy the travesty of the indenture later, once the girl was hired and free of this place. So he said, “Can you arrange a hired carriage for the governess to be transported to the Old Milton Farm, outside of Chalton, on the morrow? Of course I’ll include extra fullmarks to pay for it.”

  “Very good, sir. Good day.” The headmistress pushed him into the hall.

  As he descended the orphanage stairs, hoping for a final glimpse of the pretty water-sprite girl to brighten his day, Jackson sighed. This was the life the war’s devastating conclusion had brought him—the life he had avoided for so long. Playing master over others, privileged by his name and his fullmage status. He rubbed his eyes.

  The Levelers had fought so hard and gained so little.

  Jackson’s boots scuffed the sidewalk of Water Street as he headed toward his next appointment—with his father’s attorney, Lawrence Easterly, Esq. He moved in a blind fog, mechanically performing the tasks laid before him, looking forward only to the moment when he could arrive in a quiet, silent room, though the oblivion of peaceful sleep still eluded him. The war left unexpected wounds.