Free Unnatural Issue by Mercedes Lackey Page A

a lot of moor.”
    Peter sighed. “Exactly what I told the Old Lion. Ah, well, I have my marching orders. I reckon to impersonate a gentleman artist. No one expects an artist to act sensibly, and it gives me the excuse to ask all manner of things under the guise of finding scenery and subjects.”
    “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like. We can swap lies about our Oxford days like a pair of old codgers.” Charles grinned. “Actually, you can tell me what’s going on with the blasted Germans. My Elemental friends are not happy.”
    Interesting. Charles, out in the wilds of Yorkshire, had Elementals that were more aware of the Kaiser’s threat than the fellows in London had . . .
    “Your Elementals are right to be unhappy,” he replied with a shake of his head. “Grim times coming, old man. All right, I’ll catch you up on all that when I arrive tomorrow night. Garrick is coming with me.”
    “Top hole. Good night!”
    And with that, the water cleared. Charles was a “mere” magician, not a Master; holding communication open for that long had probably taxed him. Peter dismissed the energies, unmade the spell, took the loose piece out of the circle on the floor, and carried the now inert bowl of water to the window and poured it out. It was just a good idea to be in the habit of clearing everything but the permanent protections on a Working Room when you were done with magic. Some people preferred to leave things that they used often half-enchanted, but Grandmama and Peter’s father had taught him better than that. There was always the chance that someone could break into your Working Room and take something, and if it was half-enchanted, then they had a direct line into the heart of your magic.
    He rubbed his eyes and yawned. It had been a very long day, and there was another long day of driving ahead of him. Fortunately, he could count on Garrick to have his bed turned down, his nightclothes waiting, and the window wide open when he stumbled up to his room.
    “Good night, chaps,” he said to the waiting spirits, who nodded affably and faded into the walls. He closed the door of the Working Room behind him and tottered out to where his grandmother was waiting. She’d want to hear all of it and tender her own opinion on the subject.
    Which, given that she had been a Master more than twice as long as Peter had been alive, would be a very good thing to hear.

4

    F OR once, the weather decided to cooperate with this journey. Peter had been keeping track, and it was a fact: Four times out of every five that he had to take a long trip by auto, it would bucket down rain. He never had dared to trust his luck in winter; he was afraid that if he did, he and Garrick would not be found until spring at the bottom of a melting snowdrift. In winter, he took the train, or he managed to keep far enough out of Alderscroft’s reach that he couldn’t be sent off on journeys like this one.
    The drive was astonishingly pleasant; Garrick was something of a minor wizard at knowing just where to stop, and luncheon at a crossroads pub in the middle of nowhere turned out to be an absolute delight. Garrick was also very good at interpreting maddeningly indecipherable signs at crossroads; Peter suspected that this was some odd aspect of his minor Air talents, because he couldn’t imagine any other way that his valet could have gotten sense out of signs so faded scarcely a ghost of the lettering remained.
    It was well after dark when they pulled into the drive of the pleasantly situated country house that Charles Kerridge and his family had lived in since the time of George the First. Charles’ family was by no means as exalted as Peter’s—Peter’s brother was, after all, the Duke of Westbury—but their country house, Branwell Hall, was one of the most impressive Tudor manors he had ever seen, and Peter knew of several palaces that were smaller. Add to that, Branwell Hall was surrounded by an estate of over two thousand