Free Unnatural Issue by Mercedes Lackey Page B

acres . . . it wasn’t exactly a cozy little cottage.
    The estate had passed into the hands of the Kerridges as a result of “an unfortunate gambling habit” combined with a complete lack of interest on the part of the previous owner in marrying and begetting an heir. A distant connection had made the transfer of ownership a bit more palatable to the locals, and after two hundred years, the Kerridges were now firmly ensconced in the squirearchy.
    Of course, having Earth magic run in the family had certainly helped that along. Charles, like every Earth magician Peter knew, was a good and careful steward of his land, his tenants, and “his” village. That was abundantly clear in the vibrant health of everything that could be considered within his reach. Even though it was dark when they passed Branwell Village, Peter could feel the rightness of the place.
    As Charles had promised, they were watched for. A light was burning at the gatehouse as they entered the open cast-iron gates, and he stopped the car as the gatehouse door opened, and a figure approached Garrick’s side of the car.
    “Lord Peter?” inquired the surprisingly young man who peered inside, looking at Garrick.
    “Indeed, but I am not Lord Peter,” Garrick said patiently. He was used to this. “Lord Peter prefers to handle this temperamental creature himself. I am Garrick.”
    “Beggin’ yur pardon, m’lard,” the young man said, tipping an invisible hat to Peter and looking embarrassed. Peter suspected that he was more embarrassed for Peter, who was—horrors!—handling the wheel of the auto himself, than he was at his own mistake.
    “I know, I am a disgrace, but she won’t go for Garrick, don’t you know,” he said apologetically. “We’re expected up at the house?”
    “Aye, m’lard,” the young man said. “Yur t’ go straight oop.”
    “Thank you kindly,” Peter replied. The young man touched the invisible hat again and backed away from the car. Garrick waited until they were out of earshot.
    “I will be sure to let the staff know that you are the younger son, m’lord,” he said, with a hint of amusement.
    “Ah, yes, of course, all manner of ramshackle behavior is to be expected from a younger son,” Peter replied, and chuckled. “Then, of course, when I start gadding about as an artist, I’ll stop shocking the poor folk, and they can commence to gossip about my eccentricity in comfort.”
    “Quite so,” Garrick agreed.
    It was a very long drive, but the Manor was visible for the entire distance. There were lights in most of the windows on this side—the soft glow, however, told Peter that this was probably candlelight as opposed to oil, gas, or even electricity. Not that he expected electricity. Unless there was a fast-flowing stream somewhere very nearby so that Charles could run a dynamo from that. He couldn’t imagine any Earth magician allowing a filthy generator running within his purview.
    The lamps on either side of the great door were, however, electric. And waiting on the top of the steps was (probably to the horror of his staff) Charles, himself.
    If Peter was—at least in looks—a stereotypical example of the “all nerves and nose” scion of British nobility, Charles was just as much an example of the best the squierarchy could produce. Where Peter was thin and moved with the nervous grace of an antelope and was the sort of fair-haired chap that looked faintly washed out, Charles was tall and brown and looked as if he ought to be leaping from crag to crag on a mountaintop somewhere. Under his voluminous driving duster, hat, and goggles, Peter’s suit nearly screamed “Savile Row.” Charles was all tweed and leather elbow patches, and he’d probably been walking the bounds with the gamekeeper. The only person on the face of it that Peter was less likely to have as a friend was a Cockney thief.
    Which, of course, was another sort of odd duck he was friends with.
    Peter was in no condition after so long a