any of his spells, and it suited him. For herself, she preferred rosemary, sharp and cleansing. Rosemary for memory. It might sting the conscience of some of the flock, though I donât think Iâd care to count on that.
This was the dark of the moon, and unless her father wished it, the flock would remain as swans all night. Only he could counter the spell that required moonlight for their transformation.
Well, I think that I could, but I have no intention of doing so. Not tonight, my ladies. Father isnât here, so youâll just have to languish in your feathers. I intend to enjoy having the gardens all to myself for a change. It only seemed fair to her; the flock had them twenty-seven days out of twenty-eight. On these moonless nights, they tended to slumber on and around the little island, sleeping to make the hours pass faster, she supposed.
She ordered the lanterns along the garden paths lit, and requested the Silent Ones to perform her favorite music, soft madrigals on lute, harp, and flute. Tonight she had done enough work; with the last of the summer flowers in bloom, she would enjoy a few hours without thinking of work or study.
There was a tense expectancy about her father lately, as if he had found something he had long looked for. Heâd spent every night away from the manor; from past experience, she suspected that it wouldnât be long until he was on the hunt. The only question in her mind was, would he leave her and the flock here, or take them with her? Heâd snared Katerina on his own, but roughly half the flock had been taken when heâd had the rest in tow.
That could have been only because I was so small, and he didnât care to leave me alone, she thought, a bit wistfully. He hadnât trusted the Silent Ones with her unsupervised care, and of course her mother had been gone by then.
Mother . . . I donât even know what her given name was. She couldnât recall much about her mother anymore, just a vague sense of comfort, a low, sweet voice, and the scent of violets. Her father wouldnât allow a single violet to take root here; the Silent Ones dug them out ruthlessly and the few times sheâd seen or smelled one had been when sheâd been outside the estate. She hadnât even known that the scent she associated with her mother was the scent of violets, until sheâd come across some in bloom when she wandered in a wild part of the forest around the manor.
Von Rothbart didnât exactly refuse to talk about her mother, so much as completely ignore any questions on the subject. As a very young child, sheâd learned not to ask those questions because when she did, her father would stalk off and leave her alone.
Now I prefer to be alone. How odd. Just as well, really; sorcerers were a solitary lot, and it was as well to make a virtue of necessity. Other magicians might choose to be in the employ of kings and princes, but not her father. He would take second place to no man.
And quite rightly, too, she thought with pride. Baron von Rothbart has blood as fine as any prince, and power that none can match. They should be bowing to him, not the other way around.
She wondered what he was hunting this time, and where. Although she understood his self-imposed search for unfaithful women, it had occurred to her more than once that it was probably the hunt itself that interested him, and not the final capture. The spells he used to take his quarry were very much alike; the transformation spell and binding spell were items she had masteredâthere wasnât much scope there for creativity. It must be the stalk, the chase itself that keeps him interested. How many women did he watch before he found the faithless ones? Was such watching tediousâor did he have another version of the Silent Ones to invisibly spy out his quarry?
All women canât be unfaithful, or there wouldnât be anyone left to raise families. Unless they run off with
This was the dark of the moon, and unless her father wished it, the flock would remain as swans all night. Only he could counter the spell that required moonlight for their transformation.
Well, I think that I could, but I have no intention of doing so. Not tonight, my ladies. Father isnât here, so youâll just have to languish in your feathers. I intend to enjoy having the gardens all to myself for a change. It only seemed fair to her; the flock had them twenty-seven days out of twenty-eight. On these moonless nights, they tended to slumber on and around the little island, sleeping to make the hours pass faster, she supposed.
She ordered the lanterns along the garden paths lit, and requested the Silent Ones to perform her favorite music, soft madrigals on lute, harp, and flute. Tonight she had done enough work; with the last of the summer flowers in bloom, she would enjoy a few hours without thinking of work or study.
There was a tense expectancy about her father lately, as if he had found something he had long looked for. Heâd spent every night away from the manor; from past experience, she suspected that it wouldnât be long until he was on the hunt. The only question in her mind was, would he leave her and the flock here, or take them with her? Heâd snared Katerina on his own, but roughly half the flock had been taken when heâd had the rest in tow.
That could have been only because I was so small, and he didnât care to leave me alone, she thought, a bit wistfully. He hadnât trusted the Silent Ones with her unsupervised care, and of course her mother had been gone by then.
Mother . . . I donât even know what her given name was. She couldnât recall much about her mother anymore, just a vague sense of comfort, a low, sweet voice, and the scent of violets. Her father wouldnât allow a single violet to take root here; the Silent Ones dug them out ruthlessly and the few times sheâd seen or smelled one had been when sheâd been outside the estate. She hadnât even known that the scent she associated with her mother was the scent of violets, until sheâd come across some in bloom when she wandered in a wild part of the forest around the manor.
Von Rothbart didnât exactly refuse to talk about her mother, so much as completely ignore any questions on the subject. As a very young child, sheâd learned not to ask those questions because when she did, her father would stalk off and leave her alone.
Now I prefer to be alone. How odd. Just as well, really; sorcerers were a solitary lot, and it was as well to make a virtue of necessity. Other magicians might choose to be in the employ of kings and princes, but not her father. He would take second place to no man.
And quite rightly, too, she thought with pride. Baron von Rothbart has blood as fine as any prince, and power that none can match. They should be bowing to him, not the other way around.
She wondered what he was hunting this time, and where. Although she understood his self-imposed search for unfaithful women, it had occurred to her more than once that it was probably the hunt itself that interested him, and not the final capture. The spells he used to take his quarry were very much alike; the transformation spell and binding spell were items she had masteredâthere wasnât much scope there for creativity. It must be the stalk, the chase itself that keeps him interested. How many women did he watch before he found the faithless ones? Was such watching tediousâor did he have another version of the Silent Ones to invisibly spy out his quarry?
All women canât be unfaithful, or there wouldnât be anyone left to raise families. Unless they run off with
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