Maybe she could leave the message with the sisters and absolve herself of all responsibility. Suddenly the brooch flared with heat in her hand, and she dropped it onto the floor. She blew on her stinging palm.
“What happened, dear?” Miss Bunchberry asked.
“It burned me! I was thinking about getting rid of it and it burned me!”
“Arcane relics often have a mind of their own, and when they’ve made up their minds about something, well, there is no changing them.”
Karigan groaned. How could an inanimate object have a mind of its own? She tentatively picked up the brooch. It was as cold and immutable as ever, and only her still stinging palm proved the brooch had burned her. Was she losing control of her life to a horse, a ghost, and a brooch?
“Poor child,” Miss Bayberry said. “You ought to be settled into a life of ease and courting as with all girls your age. But I can see in you too much fire for such a life. Yours is an open road filled with excitement and, yes, perils.
“Never forget you are a creature of free will. Free will is everything. You may choose to abandon your mission. Choice, my child, is the word. If you carry that message against your will, then the mission has already failed. Do you understand?”
Karigan nodded. She had chosen to carry the message. Even F’ryan Coblebay had given her the choice. To believe she had been forced against her will to carry it was to admit defeat before the mission had even begun.
PROFESSOR BERRY’S LIBRARY
Miss Bunchberry showed Karigan to her father’s library so that she might amuse herself in a restful way before supper. The shelves along each wall were filled from floor to ceiling with books, their spines dyed in bright yellows and reds, deep blues and greens. Older tomes covered in plain, worn leather stood out amidst the color. Embossed titles in gold and silver gleamed on the bindings in the remnant shreds of daylight.
If Karigan were more of a scholar, she’d feel as if she had stumbled upon a veritable wonderland. The collection was greater than even Dean Geyer’s.
Thought of the dean made her frown.
A bay window looked out into the formal gardens below where a bronze statue of the fabled Marin the Gardener, in her weathered, elderly visage, watched over the grounds. Sparrows and chickadees darted to and fro, feeding on seed left on the statue’s outstretched hand. The popularity of Marin was greatest along the seacoast where it was said she had once inhabited an island in the Northern Sea Archipelago. Some island cultures deified her as the Mother of all Nature, while those inland tended to think of her as more of a sea-witch who brought good luck to the gardener, and kept a limited area in balance with itself. A winter for every summer, the stories went.
Her presence in gardens was supposed to bring a bountiful harvest of foodstuffs, and to promote the growth of colorful and glorious flowers. Lovage, delphinium, comfrey, and others grew beneath her beneficent gaze. Violets and bluets bloomed about her feet. In an adjacent plot, a vegetable garden was laid out in neat rows, tender shoots seeking the sun, and leaves unfurling over tantalizing secrets just beginning to take shape beneath the soil.
A brass telescope mounted on a tripod looked out through the bay window toward the sky. An expensive object to possess, even for someone as wealthy as Karigan’s father. The ground glass alone was probably equivalent to two barges of his finest silks.
A fire crackled in a snug hearth, casting a warm glow over the room. The library was a very homey place in all.
A collection of objects displayed on a mahogany table drew her to the center of the room. A navigator’s astrolabe stood next to the pitted skull of some unknown creature. A beautiful harp set with emeralds, sapphires, garnets, rubies, tourmaline, and diamonds glistened in the firelight. There were many things that weren’t set in any particular order: a whale’s tooth with fine scrimshaw etchings of a sailor and a fair lady, a hunk of melted, glassy rock of unknown origins, a rusted dagger with a polished pearl handle, a gold coin indented with tooth marks . . . endless things to entertain a curious mind.
A miniature ship encapsulated in a bottle fascinated Karigan. It rocked in a frothy sea, square-rigged sails billowing, seemingly in a breeze. Tiny figures moved about on deck or climbed the rigging. A light fog moved in on the ship, and moved out. The waters calmed some, and the sails slackened.
She was tempted to uncork the bottle to see if the sea would pour out. She suppressed the impulse, but not before another caused her to grab the bottle and shake it. The “sky” darkened; foamy waves lashed the deck, and the ship pitched and careened. Rain fell in sheets. Ant-sized sailors scrambled for handholds, and she imagined she could hear their cries above the crashing of the sea. Drop the aft riggin’, boys, an’ watch the top’sle, she blows down! the bosun cried. Then, Man overboard!
The sailors staggered and crawled astern, groping from handhold to handhold, doing all they could to keep from being washed overboard themselves, but by the time they reached the poop deck, their companion had vanished beneath the roiling waters.
Karigan hastily replaced the bottle and stepped back repelled, trying to reassure herself that the ship’s lifelike qualities had all been the effect of some illusion or magic, and that the tiny figures on board had never been in peril.
In time, the tempest subsided and the seas calmed. The crew dropped anchor and set about making repairs to sails and rigging. Karigan heaved an unintended sigh of relief.
Next she picked up a clear, round crystal. Dazzling silver rays flickered to life from within, and spread warmth through her aching muscles more effectively than the bath had. She fancied it was a captured moonbeam such as children chased, as she had once chased, on silver moon nights. She never heard of anyone ever capturing one. It was said that only Eletians were quick enough, but no one knew if the fair race that once inhabited the Elt Wood still existed.