It took all her will to jerk her hand and emotions away. Voice shaking, she said, "Our connection is too strong to break entirely, but we can't let it become stronger." She drew a ragged breath. "We can't be a couple. We can't touch." We can't kiss.

"How can we see each other in the Irregulars and not want to be together?" he retorted. "One of us would have to leave."

"No!" she exclaimed. "We are both sworn to serve Britain. We need the training and the friendship of the other Irregulars. We can learn to be ... separate. We must."

His eyes narrowed. "My mother must have been very persuasive."

"She was. Your parents love you deeply. Your father doesn't want to disinherit you. But he would feel that he must if you attach yourself to another mageling."

"I know all that," he said impatiently. "If I must choose, I choose you."

She wiped at the tears that were spilling down her cheeks. "I am honored beyond words that you say that. But can you survive if you don't have Kemperton?" In the darkening afternoon, the glow that connected him to his land was even more visible. "Your roots sink so deep into this soil that you might wither if you are torn from it. You mustn't throw away your heritage for what might be only a ... a passing infatuation."

He stared at her. "I owe you my life, Tory! How can I put Kemperton above you?"

"Saving your life didn't come with cost or obligation, Justin," she said softly, seeing how right his mother had been. "As comrades, we risked ourselves for each other. That doesn't mean you must give up the life you were born to because you feel you owe me anything."

His mouth twisted. "What we have is much more than obligation, isn't it?"

She wished she could lie convincingly, but she couldn't. Not to him. "Yes. But we have known all along how much uncertainty lies ahead of us." She sighed. "I have never been sure that we would have any kind of future, Justin."

"Nor have I." His hands were white-knuckled on his reins. "But I thought we would at least have the time until leaving Lackland. Why can't we have that?"

"Because the longer we are together, the deeper the bond between us. It's almost impossible to end things now." She saw with absolute certainty if she wasn't strong enough to break with him now, she would never be able to do it later. "I can't bear to cost you the certainty of the land you love for the uncertainty of me. Of us."

They rode in silence for the space of a dozen heartbeats before he said in a voice of flint, "Perhaps you are right, though I don't think so." He turned to her, gray eyes blazing. "But if you are hell-bent on destroying the priceless gift we've been given, I can't hold you against your will."

"Staying would not be against my will," she whispered. "But it would be against my best judgment." And because she loved him, she must leave him.

Unable to bear another moment, she turned and beckoned for her brother's groom to approach. "No need to take me all the way home. I'll be safe enough."

Allarde started to protest, then clamped his mouth shut. He looked like marble again. Cool, impossibly handsome, remote. And under the surface, searing anger. As they stared at each other, Tory felt something tearing deep inside her spirit.

Wordlessly he wheeled his horse and headed back to Kemperton at a furious gallop. She stared after him, one hand pressed to her aching chest. Was it possible to die of a broken heart?

But her breathing continued, her pulse still hammered in her temples, and her horse continued forward as if the world had not changed irrevocably.

She knew she was doing the right thing. And she would pay for it the rest of her life.

By the time Tory arrived back at Layton Place, it was dusk and flurries of snow were blowing past her. She felt like a bubble of blown glass that would shatter at a touch.

Wishing she had her stealth stone so she wouldn't be seen, she slipped into the house. The wedding was to be day after tomorrow, and the hum of happy excitement in the air made her feel even worse.

Giving a sigh of relief that she'd reached her room unseen, she darted inside-and found Molly seated by the lamp and singing happily under her breath as she hemmed a garment. The maid glanced up. "Good evening, my lady. Did you have...?" Her face changed and she rose, setting her sewing aside. "Miss Tory, what happened?"

As Tory stared at the maid's round, good-natured face, she began to shake. She felt cold down to her very marrow.

"Oh, my lady," Molly said compassionately. "That young man of yours has decided he had best avoid any expectations so he's turning away?"

"No," Tory whispered. "I turned from him because if we stay together he will lose-too much."

Seeing her expression, Molly enfolded her in an embrace, more like a sister than a maid. But Molly wasn't really a servant. They were magelings together, and the older girl was a reader.

Remembering that, Tory asked brokenly, "What do you see of him and me?"

Molly frowned and closed her eyes, focusing her talent. "He is good, your young lord. Honorable to the bone. You and he would fit forever if you were born to a different station. But as you are"-she shook her head-"there is so much to keep you apart. You were born to be a heroine, my lady. To put others first. You do the right thing with Lord Allarde, just as you did with your nephew."

"Does the right thing always hurt so much?" Tory whispered.

"Not always. But often." After a thoughtful pause, Molly added, "As much as it hurts now, I think it would hurt more if you betrayed your nature. Now you sit down here and I'll ring for a nice hot cup of tea."

Tory sank into the nearest chair, grateful for Molly's care in tucking a warm shawl around her trembling shoulders. The other girl was right. Ending things with Allarde hurt beyond anything she'd ever known, even worse than her exile to Lackland.

But selfishly leading him to lose his heritage would hurt even worse.

CHAPTER 13.

Cynthia eyed Jack Rainford warily when she met him in the Labyrinth the morning of her lesson with Lily Rainford, but his greeting was perfectly proper. "Good morning, Lady Cynthia. Your horse awaits." His eyes sparkled. "You see I am being very well-behaved."

"You can say all the right words and still sound impertinent," she said tartly as she caught up the long skirts of her riding habit. It was deep sky blue and she knew she looked very fine. She'd never had a chance to wear the outfit, with its dashing shako hat.

Though she'd outgrown the habit she'd worn when she was exiled to Lackland, she refused to be without proper riding gear. Sending her measurements to her father's secretary always produced a fine and fashionable ensemble. What she hadn't been able to acquire was a horse.

"Impertinence is a gift," he said modestly. "I come of sturdy yeoman stock, you know. We own land but aren't noble, and that makes us independent."

As they fell into step down the violet tunnel, he continued, "I have cousins in America, in their new United States. I like their democracy. All men being equal."

She stared at him, genuinely shocked. "You really believe all are equal?"

"Equal in the eyes of God and the law," he said seriously. "Not equal inherently, of course. You and I and the other Irregulars are all special because of our power." He glanced at her. "You are also above average in beauty."

"And you are above average in insolence," she said, but she had to smile.

"As I said, it's a gift."

They continued along the passage in silence, but a comfortable one. She'd had two days to recover from that strange, harrowing energy surge when he'd kissed her under the bough, and had decided he was right. It was merely a matter of misapplied energy between two powerful magelings. As they neared the end of the tunnel, she remarked, "I wonder how ugly this horse will be."

"Prepare yourself for a shock," he warned as he opened the door to the outside.

She stepped out and was immediately swept up by storm energy. "Some fierce weather coming in from the North Sea!" she said, exhilarated.

"Wonderful, isn't it?" They shared a weather mage smile.

Still smiling, she followed him to the edge of the grove. As he'd warned, the horse tethered beside Pegasus was a shock. Cynthia stopped with a gasp. "She's beautiful!"

The sweet little gray mare's flawless conformation would bring a queenly price at the fashionable Tattersall's horse market in London. Cynthia moved to the mare's side and stroked the silky neck. "How did such a beauty end up in your stable?"

"She was born to one of our ugly mares," Jack said with a grin. "Though she is unfortunately beautiful, she's Rachel's mount, so we have to keep her."

"If I don't see Rachel later, please thank her for letting me ride her horse." Cynthia had always loved horses. She could safely tell them her secrets. "I wish I had a treat for her."

Jack reached into his pocket and produced an irregular white lump. "Your wish is my command, my lady. Sylph loves sugar."

"She's a spirit of the air?" Cynthia offered the mare the sugar on her palm. Sylph delicately lapped it up.

"Because she rides like the wind. Ready to be off?"

When Cynthia nodded, Jack laced his fingers together to create a foothold to help her up. "Careful, there's an extra horn on the saddle," he warned. "My mother added it. She says it gives a more secure seat for jumping."

Cynthia studied the extra horn with interest. "I like the look of this." She set her foot in Jack's joined hands and he tossed her into the saddle. By the time she adjusted her long skirts to fall modestly over her ankles, Jack had mounted Pegasus.

They set off toward Swallow Grange. Once they were clear of the woods, Cynthia set Sylph into a gallop, glorying in the speed and the lovely horse and the burning power of the approaching storm. "This is as good as dancing!"

Jack answered her with a laugh and matched his speed to hers. Pegasus might be ugly, but he had good gaits and power. They slowed their pace when they reached the road into Lackland. "Main road or coast trail along the cliffs?" Jack asked.

"The cliffs, by all means." Cynthia's eyes sparkled. "So we can feel the approaching storm." She'd never taken the coast path before, and the churning seas and biting wind were stimulating.

"It's going to be a fine storm," Jack said, his voice pitched above the crashing waves. "If it gets too bad, you might want to spend the night at the Grange. Or will they miss you at the school?"

Cynthia shrugged. She didn't want to think about Lackland. Even the churlishness of the girls there couldn't ruin her mood. "If I don't show up for dinner, no one will come looking."

"The advantage of having a reputation for temper?" he asked shrewdly.

"Exactly," she said, surprised that he had recognized that. "It's very useful." And often she was in a bad mood. She had been for over two years, since her magic had been discovered.

Swallow Grange came into view, sturdy against the winds. They rode around to the kitchen door and Jack dismounted so he could help Cynthia down. His touch was entirely proper, yet she was very aware of the heat of his body only a few inches away.

She was tall, but he was taller, and he had a fine set of shoulders. She moved away quickly, not wanting to be too aware of his body.

"My mother will probably be waiting for you in the kitchen," Jack said. "She thinks you might have a good deal of hearth-witch talent."

Cynthia was unsure whether to be flattered or insulted, since hearth witchery was the magic of commoners. But useful. "I hope she's right. I'd like to be able to stay warm at the abbey." Like Tory, who had made a point of studying hearth witchery with the Irregulars who were particularly talented in it.

"I'll take care of the horses now," Jack said with a smile. "Until later."

Thinking the blasted boy had a smile almost as warm as hearth witchery, Cynthia caught up her skirts and sailed into the kitchen. Jack Rainford was a commoner, and practically a radical who believed all were created equal. But Cynthia couldn't help remembering scandalous tales of grand ladies who kept personal footmen who were lowborn but notably good-looking.

Lily Rainford was indeed in the kitchen. It was a frightfully vulgar scene-the lady of the house having tea with the cook! But undeniably homey.

Lily rose, her smile as warm as the fire. "Good morning, Lady Cynthia. Would you like a cup of tea and some ginger cakes just out of the oven? That will warm you from the ride while I explain hearth-witch magic."

"That would be lovely, Mrs. Rainford." Cynthia removed her bonnet and cloak and hung them on the pegs by the door. There was no footman to take the garments in a farmhouse kitchen.

So why did she feel more welcome here than anywhere else in her life?

Once Cynthia was settled in a cushioned Windsor chair by the fire with tea and delicious cakes beside her, Lily Rainford said, "You've probably learned much of this in the Labyrinth, so forgive me if I go over what you know."

"Please start at the beginning," Cynthia said, not wanting to say that she'd never paid attention to hearth-witch lessons since she'd considered them beneath her. But she'd had enough of being cold. "I want to know everything."

"Hearth witchery is the most ancient and basic of magics," Lily explained. "It deals with temperature and the elements around us. Water, fire, air. The primal powers that helped our ancestors survive."

She gestured at the fireplace. Flames leaped a yard high. With a snap of her fingers, the flames curled into a circle of dancing light. Cynthia caught her breath in delight.

Releasing the fire, Lily continued, "Traditionally, hearth witchery is more of a woman's power, though most mages have at least a little of the talent. It comes from a different, deeper place in the spirit than other magical abilities." She hesitated. "The quickest way for me to teach this is if you'll allow me to enter into your mind."

Cynthia stiffened. "Read my thoughts? I should think not!"

"Not that," Lily said soothingly. "The power to read thoughts is extremely rare, and I don't have it. For this, I would only take your hand. You would feel a sense of my presence, no more. Once there, I will guide you to whatever hearth-witch magic you have. Once you know the path, you will be able to call it up whenever you wish. Though practice will help, of course."

"Very well." Cynthia was instinctively wary, but Lily inspired trust. She extended her hand.

The older woman's clasp was gentle and secure. "Close your eyes and relax," she said softly, her mind an unthreatening warmth that slowly grew in Cynthia's awareness. "Different people see their power in different images. Accept what your mind offers."

Cynthia nodded, relaxing under the touch of the older woman's words and power.

"Down and down and down and down," Lily murmured. "Travel to the deepest center of your power."

Cynthia closed her eyes, feeling as if she were sinking into a feather bed. And-she was not alone. Lily wasn't intrusive, simply there the way Cynthia's mother had been when Cynthia was little.

She felt a curious duality. Part of her was aware that she was sitting by the fire and holding hands in the real world. But in her mind, the two of them were sinking into a mysterious, shifting sphere of magical power.

They passed dark places she didn't want to explore, but also veins of light. She recognized a swirling torrent of weather power as Lily guided her into darker, deeper passages.

Down and down and down until they reached a dark chamber. In the center was a dancing flame of welcoming warmth. Voice sounding very distant, Lily said, "Reach into your power, Lady Cynthia. It won't hurt you."

Hesitantly Cynthia obeyed, stretching one hand toward the fire. Even when she warily touched flames, they didn't burn. Instead welcome heat rushed through every fiber of her body, warming places that had been cold so long she'd forgotten they existed. Laughing with delight, she lunged both hands into the magical flames. "I like this!"

Lily laughed with her. "Take your time. Play with the power. Become one with it so you'll always be able to draw this warmth into yourself and your surroundings."

Cynthia obeyed, pouring flame from one hand to another, tossing blazing balls up and catching them again. She understood now why Lily said hearth witchery was so ancient. Fire was the power that sustained life, and a hearth witch could bend that power to her will.

She grew the magic into a bonfire and dived into it like a playful otter. Again and again she danced through the light until she heard Lily say, "Ready to return?"

Cynthia nodded, withdrawing from the magic with reluctance.

"Float up like a bubble," Lily murmured.

Cynthia rose through the depths toward Lily's voice. As she did, she realized that a silver thread now connected her to the ancient hearth magic. It was part of her now and could be summoned at need. She emerged seamlessly in the Rainford kitchen.

When she opened her eyes, Lily released her hand. "How do you feel?"