The Jezebel by Saskia Walker Page B

anything, and that was strange, for it was very far from what she had known in her life before. The horrific memory of witnessing her mother’s death made her lower her gaze and be grateful that she and her siblings had been spared. During this time she did not even dare to think of her magic, let alone use it, lest her saviors cast her out to face a death like her mother’s.
    Almost everything of a feminine nature was introduced to her life by Mama Beth. It was the master of the house who took control of her education—and through that, ultimately, took control of her.
    “Young lady.” He beckoned her over one evening before Mama Beth and the upstairs maid prepared her for bed. “You must begin your classes tomorrow.”
    Maisie instinctively went to his side, nerves building within her as she grew concerned about his meaning.
    When she stood beside his winged armchair, he took her hand in his. “If you are to become a proper young lady you must learn about the world.” He looked at her with a searching gaze, his opaque eyes shrewd, his black hair shot through here and there with gray strands, drawing her attention, for he didn’t wear a wig in the informal setting of his home. “Can you read?”
    “No, sire.” It was not a question she had been asked before, but she felt shameful, knowing she was amongst privileged people now and did not want to disappoint them.
    “That can soon be remedied. Your schoolmistress arrives on the morrow. You will begin your lessons then.” He tapped Margaret on the end of her nose with one finger. “She will have you reading in no time, and then we can study together.” He showed great interest in that prospect, and his faith in her potential made her a little less afraid.
    From then on her mornings were devoted to lessons with a schoolmistress, lessons that might be considered normal fare for a girl of her age. Under the governess’s instruction her reading and writing skills quickly improved, and her mind broadened as she took on geography, history and arithmetic. Her teacher, Mistress Hinchcliffe, was a widow. She had nut-brown hair and sad eyes, and her smile was so rare and special that Maisie soon learned its immense value. Mistress Hinchcliffe was a keen teacher, and she rewarded Maisie for her enthusiasm. Sometimes with her smile.
    Maisie quickly learned things that she recognized to be useful and important—things that were not often afforded to young women of her age, and especially not those of her questionable background.
    Once her reading skills were addressed, Master Cyrus began to undertake some of her tutoring himself, just as he had promised. He studied with her after Mistress Hinchcliffe returned to her lodgings, and the books he shared with Margaret were very different from the ones she studied with her morning tutor. At first he kept the volumes in a locked wooden cabinet in the schoolroom. However, Mistress Hinchcliffe often looked at it with a dubious glance, and eventually it and its contents were moved back to the library, from whence they had come.
    “You must not share the nature of the lessons we look at together,” Master Cyrus instructed her after the cabinet was moved, “for neither Mama Beth nor your tutor would understand the precious subject matter, and it is my duty to protect you from those who would wish to harm you...the way your mother was harmed.”
    He told her this as he led her to his personal library.
    Her grip on his hand tightened.
    In those early days he didn’t often refer to her mother’s demise. He did not have to remind her of it, but when he did so it was always in warning.
    The books they studied were never shared with his wife. Neither did Mama Beth partake in any of the special lessons.
    “I want you to know and understand your beginnings,” he informed Margaret. “You come from a long line of witches, and you are gifted and special. It is not my intention to quell that part of your nature. In fact, I mean to