*There is some overlap at the beginning as I’d put in a bit of the next chapter. Sorry it’s short. More next week. I’ll also do a tab for it, so you can catch up.- SAH*

Witch’s Daughter – Second installment (first is here.)
The Kindness of Strangers
Miss Albinia Blackley didn’t scream. Or at least she tried, but as she turned over, her hair falling out and her cap being lost in the street below, it seemed to her that the air robbed both her ability to breathe and her ability to make a sound. From above she heard her mother scream, but not what her mother said. From below other screams joined, together with some sort of strange musical instrument that sounded like a crazed goose.
She caught glimpses of the street below, the glint of something like metal but in many colors. She tried to use her magic to slow the fall, but of course it didn’t work, when she couldn’t even think clearly.
And then from somewhere she heard a male voice. It said a jumble of words. Or at least the words sounded like a jumble in her, though of course, right then anything would.
Her fall arrested. Not suddenly, but first slowing down, like a leaf falling gently from a tree onto the welcoming ground.
Only she didn’t fall on the ground. Or get a chance to straighten up. Instead, she fell face first onto something hard and wooden. As she recovered breath, she realized that the something she’d fallen on was moving, gliding rapidly through the air. Or perhaps not gliding, because… She blinked as she picked herself up to sitting on the floor of a small rowboat and looked at the boy who was rowing it. He was tall and dark, and scowling, and plying the oars with a will. And they were charging through the air, weaving and twisting, while mama screamed above, ever more distantly, and below the screams had changed from a horrified to a strangely excited tone.
“What?” Albinia heard herself squeak. “How? Who—”
“Not now,” the boy said, between panting breaths. “We must get out of here, before the location affects the spell.”
Like that, they seemed to push through… something, and there was the brief cold of what Albinia had learned to call In Betweener. She’d never experienced it, of course, not being allowed to perform spells that dangerous – or really to escape Mama’s orbit that easily – but she’d read about it in her instruction books. It was supposed to be the time you slipped between one world and the next, and you were nowhere. There were horrible warnings against getting stuck in the In Betweener, unable to breathe, forever. Albinia had always wondered how anyone knew you could get stuck there, or if you died or if you just stayed suspended forever. Since there was no time in the Betweener, could you die there?
When she’d tried to ask such questions of Mama, mama had told her that young ladies of refinement didn’t ask stupid questions. But she’d never explained to Albinia why the questions were stupid, or, indeed, what refinement had to do with it.
Now going through, for however brief a moment she was, she realized what had originated the talk of dying in the In Betweener. Even if no one could know if it had ever happened. Only that someone hadn’t arrived to the place where they’d meant to go. The seconds – minutes?—in Betweener felt like she’d been dragged head-first through hell. No. Not hell, hell would have something, even if the something was pretty unpleasant. This was just…nothing. Humans shouldn’t live in nothing.
She’d had no more than time to think this – or perhaps think was too clear a word. She’d in fact only had a moment to feel it, like one groping in the dark for an unfamiliar shape – than they were out, into cool clear air, with bright son and a smattering of snow flakes dancing in it.
And the boat was falling.
The young man whose boat it was – unless, of course, he’d stolen it – rowed more frantically, and the fall slowed down and changed into a glide.
“We’re in London,” Albinia said, delightedly, recognizing things only seen in woodcuts, the Thames and the Bridge, the tower of London, as they turned and glided in the air above the city.
The boy only gave her a dirty look. But maybe he couldn’t speak. He was read in the face and rowing fast enough that if they were on water they’d be achieving quite a speed. Maybe. Because he was rowing faster with a hand than the other, and seemed to be controlling it, to make them fall slowly in circles.
They weren’t the only traffic in the air. There were magic carpets, as she expected, some of them pretty scruffy and small, probably pieces of bigger gliders cut and sold at a knock-off price. Those seemed to be barely above the trees, and piloted by scruffy boys carrying packages. She’d never thought of that but she supposed it made sense, to deliver purchases to ladies – and gentlemen – not willing to carry them.
There were only a couple of floating carriages, both with crests on their doors, and both, fortunately, well above them, so that there was no fear of being hit by them. She’d heard of those, or rather, read of those, in romantic novels of the kind mama most strenuously disapproved of. They were expensive, both to build and to bespell, which meant that only the wealthiest who could command the best magicians had them. A lot of them connected to the royal family.
The only other air traffic, but too far away for her to see clearly, was what appeared to be a sort of airborne building. It would be one of those carpet – liners, the vast magic carpet supporting a first class hotel. Such plied the routes between Europe and other continents, and Albinia had often dreamed of going on a round-the-world tour on one of them.
She was looking longingly towards it, and thinking it was unfair she’d never been on one of those, when her papa had invented them, as they careened downwards at speed, towards a sort of little wilderness in the middle of busy London streets.
She screamed and held to the side of the boat. The boy was almost not rowing. Was he mad? He didn’t even look at her when she screamed, his eyes fixed downward.
They fell past the small rug messengers, past the trees. Albinia kept trying to keep her eyes open, while they closed in sheer terror, and she forced them open again.
She must have closed them momentarily, because the first she knew about the small lake was when they splashed with force into the water. Water splashed on her face. Ducks screamed. She opened her eyes to see a flurry of feathers and ducks.
The boy was bent forward, his hands clasping his arms, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
She was dripping water, trying to wipe at her face, her hat sodden and soaked on her head, when the boy recovered enough breath to look up and fulminate her with as hateful and dark a glare as he’d given her before, “I—” he said. “I think you must be the most cowardly boy in the whole world. Why did you scream like that?”
Answers flitted through Albinia’s head, including that she had screamed because she’d been scared, that she didn’t think she was cowardly at all, and finally that she wasn’t a boy.
But the truth is that there was a reason she’d put on Geoffrey’s suit. It wouldn’t do for a young woman, much less what Mama called – heaven only knew why – a “gently reared female” to be traipsying around by herself and under her own recognizance. Men – if Albinia understood correctly from the novels she’d consumed – were forever wanting to do something called “stealing the virtue” of women. She had absolutely no idea what that meant. No book she consulted explained it – just like not really explaining if you could die in the Betweener — but she assumed that it meant they could take your magic or steal your magic, because after all when a magical object stopped working it was said to have lost “its virtue.”
But that had never been very clear, because a lot of the protagonists in the novels didn’t have any magical power.
All the same, and just in case, she made sure there were protective spells over her, so he couldn’t steal any of her magic – however that was done – and decided to not tell him she was a girl. Instead she said, her voice scathing and her diction precise, “Well, and you’re quite the rudest boy I’ve ever met.”
To her surprise, he laughed aloud at that, the anger disappearing. “I suppose you can’t help it,” he said. “You’re just a scrub, aren’t you. How old are you, twelve?”
She started to protest then grunted something that could be taken either way.
“And what’s your name?” he asked. “I presume you’re Master Blackley…”
How did this rude boy know her name. “I’m Al,” she said. “Call me Al.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. “I’m Michael,” he said.
He took up the oars again, and started rowing more gently towards the edge of the park. You’d think there would be people gathering and pointing at them by now, even if it was a cold day. Albinia wondered why there weren’t, and if the boy realized this was wrong. Then she realized he hadn’t given her a last name and looked at him curiously. Right. Well, then she wouldn’t ask. You could tell from his clothes and the way he talked he was a gentleman. But why wouldn’t he give her his name?
“Where are we going?” she asked instead.
He looked embarrassed. “I thought you might want to get dried and changed before I explain.”
Clear as mud, wasn’t he?
She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of getting upset though. “Very well,” she said. Could it be any worse than being caught by Mama?
It wasn’t till they’d stowed the boat, and he’d done something that obscured it as it had become invisible, then led her across a busy street and galloped up the steps of an elegant townhouse, that she wondered if he was kidnapping her for nefarious purposes, like those things she had read about. Again she made sure the shield was fastened over her magic. She wondered if he had enough magic to feel her spell work, as he looked over at her out of the corner of his eyes, the green flashing in a way that made her think he was amused.
He knocked at the door to the townhouse, and stood back, waiting, his body posture denoting impatience. She wanted more than anything to ask him who they were calling on. But she didn’t fully realize how much trouble she was in, until the house was opened by liveried footman, whose face seemed permanently arranged in an expression of something like disdain. Which changed almost immediately. The man’s eyes widened, his mouth dropped open, and he said, “Lord Michael!”
She was well brought up. Well, in some things. One of the things Mother had made sure she consumed was the manuals of peerage and etiquette. All of them.
If this young man was being addressed with Lord and his first name that meant only one thing: not only was he of a noble family, but one of the noblest.
After all, only the sons of dukes granted that courtesy title.
Michael forged ahead, a look over his shoulder calling her, “Come!”
And they were into the house, the footman barely jumping out of the way.
“Is Seraphim in?” Michael asked.
And then she realized: the name was unusual enough, she had to be at the home of the prince Consort. There was no other possibility.














