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Authors: Mary Jo Putney
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sister-in-law had studied scrying together. She couldn't match Gwynne's ability with the glass, but she'd become moderately competent.
After warming the glass between her palms, she asked a mental question about her situation. A wave of anxiety shivered through the obsidian, and she saw vague images of people searching for her. She sensed that Monsieur Fontaine had sent a message to the newlyweds reporting Jean's disappearance. She frowned, hating the idea that their honeymoons would be ruined.
Even if her friends discovered what had happened to her, there was little they could do. A ship at sea was a very small needle in a very large haystack. Perhaps a Guardian who was an exceptionally gifted hunter, like Simon, might be able to locate her, but even that was doubtful. She suspected that Gregorio was adept at covering his tracks.
What about Gregorio himself? She tried to bring up his image in the scrying glass, but he remained frustratingly out of focus. Though she sensed that he was a man who burned with anger and determination, she couldn't tell what his goals were, or what had made him what he was.
As always, serious attempts to use magic gave her a headache, so she hid the scrying glass away and lay back on the bunk. She cleared her mind and tried to reach Breeda. The two of them were alike in ways that went beyond red hair, so Breeda was the best chance for communicating.
After long minutes of striving, she felt that she touched Breeda, who was tense with anxiety. Jean tried to send the message that she was alive and unharmed, but she wasn't sure if she'd succeeded. Then she tried to reach the other thralls, with even less sense of success.
With nothing useful left to do, she rolled on her side and went back to sleep.
Jean thought that Gregorio would appear soon to threaten, explain, or taunt, but she was left alone. As the hours passed, she realized that boredom was going to be a major problem in captivity. She'd never been good at sitting still and doing nothing.
After a few hours of inactivity, she was ready to leap out of her skin. Since pacing the tiny cabin did no good, she forced herself to relax and review all the kinds of magic that might be useful.
Her heart jerked as dusk approached and the door opened, but it was only a pair of sailors delivering a meal. The tray was carried by a hard-faced man of uncertain ancestry. He was accompanied by an armed African who kept his pistol aimed at her. She'd had no idea what an alarming female she was.
She tried to coax them to speak using English, French, and Latin, with no success. Perhaps the damned men were mute. Being ignored was simultaneously soothing and anxiety provoking. What did Gregorio have in mind for her?
After they left, she clamped down on her anxiety and turned her attention to the food. The tray contained a wooden bowl holding a sticky, rice-based dish. Bits of fish and onion were mixed in, and it was surprisingly tasty. There was also a piece of good bread and a heavy glass tumbler of white table wine. She'd dined on worse in the homes of British gentry.
The only utensil was a spoon made of soft metal. She supposed her captors were being cautious, but they lacked imagination if they didn't realize that a glass tumbler or a china washing pitcher could be broken and turned into a weapon. Or maybe they merely recognized that such heroics on her part would do no good under the present circumstances.
With no candle nor any reason to stay awake, she retired when the sun went down. Since she didn't want to sleep in her gown and stays, she retrieved the worn garments she'd found in the cabinet. A pair of loose sailor's trousers in faded navy blue and a white shirt stained by dubious substances would make decent sleepwear.
She hacked the trousers to ankle length so she wouldn't trip over folds of extra cloth. The waist was huge, but it was secured by a length of cord so she could tie the trousers tightly enough to stay on. The sleeves she
After warming the glass between her palms, she asked a mental question about her situation. A wave of anxiety shivered through the obsidian, and she saw vague images of people searching for her. She sensed that Monsieur Fontaine had sent a message to the newlyweds reporting Jean's disappearance. She frowned, hating the idea that their honeymoons would be ruined.
Even if her friends discovered what had happened to her, there was little they could do. A ship at sea was a very small needle in a very large haystack. Perhaps a Guardian who was an exceptionally gifted hunter, like Simon, might be able to locate her, but even that was doubtful. She suspected that Gregorio was adept at covering his tracks.
What about Gregorio himself? She tried to bring up his image in the scrying glass, but he remained frustratingly out of focus. Though she sensed that he was a man who burned with anger and determination, she couldn't tell what his goals were, or what had made him what he was.
As always, serious attempts to use magic gave her a headache, so she hid the scrying glass away and lay back on the bunk. She cleared her mind and tried to reach Breeda. The two of them were alike in ways that went beyond red hair, so Breeda was the best chance for communicating.
After long minutes of striving, she felt that she touched Breeda, who was tense with anxiety. Jean tried to send the message that she was alive and unharmed, but she wasn't sure if she'd succeeded. Then she tried to reach the other thralls, with even less sense of success.
With nothing useful left to do, she rolled on her side and went back to sleep.
Jean thought that Gregorio would appear soon to threaten, explain, or taunt, but she was left alone. As the hours passed, she realized that boredom was going to be a major problem in captivity. She'd never been good at sitting still and doing nothing.
After a few hours of inactivity, she was ready to leap out of her skin. Since pacing the tiny cabin did no good, she forced herself to relax and review all the kinds of magic that might be useful.
Her heart jerked as dusk approached and the door opened, but it was only a pair of sailors delivering a meal. The tray was carried by a hard-faced man of uncertain ancestry. He was accompanied by an armed African who kept his pistol aimed at her. She'd had no idea what an alarming female she was.
She tried to coax them to speak using English, French, and Latin, with no success. Perhaps the damned men were mute. Being ignored was simultaneously soothing and anxiety provoking. What did Gregorio have in mind for her?
After they left, she clamped down on her anxiety and turned her attention to the food. The tray contained a wooden bowl holding a sticky, rice-based dish. Bits of fish and onion were mixed in, and it was surprisingly tasty. There was also a piece of good bread and a heavy glass tumbler of white table wine. She'd dined on worse in the homes of British gentry.
The only utensil was a spoon made of soft metal. She supposed her captors were being cautious, but they lacked imagination if they didn't realize that a glass tumbler or a china washing pitcher could be broken and turned into a weapon. Or maybe they merely recognized that such heroics on her part would do no good under the present circumstances.
With no candle nor any reason to stay awake, she retired when the sun went down. Since she didn't want to sleep in her gown and stays, she retrieved the worn garments she'd found in the cabinet. A pair of loose sailor's trousers in faded navy blue and a white shirt stained by dubious substances would make decent sleepwear.
She hacked the trousers to ankle length so she wouldn't trip over folds of extra cloth. The waist was huge, but it was secured by a length of cord so she could tie the trousers tightly enough to stay on. The sleeves she
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