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squire’s
daughter, and the person her mother seemed to identify as
her
was a
combination of both—making the rounds of the ailing cottagers with soup
and calves-foot jelly in the morning, supervising the work of an army of
servants in the afternoon, and going out with paintbox to capture the sunset in
the evening. The Marina in those letters would never pose for her uncle
(showing her legs in those baggy hose!), get herself floured to the elbow
making scones, or be lying on the grass in the orchard, bare-legged and
bare-footed. And she was, above all else, nothing like an artist.
    If anything, she was a musician, mastering mostly on her
own the lute, the flute, and the harp. But despite all of the references to
music in
her
letters, her mother didn’t seem to grasp that.
Presents of expensive paints and brushes that arrived every other month went
straight to her Uncle Sebastian; he in his turn used the money saved by not
having to buy his own to purchase music for her.
    Oh, how she loved music! It served as a second bridge
between herself and the Elemental creatures, not only of Water, but of Air, the
Sylphs and Zephyrs that Uncle Sebastian said were her allies, though why she
should need
allies
baffled her. She brought an instrument out here to
play as often as she brought a book to read.
I’m good,
she
thought idly, staring at words written in a careful copperplate hand that had
nothing to do with the real
her. If I had to—I could probably make my
own living from music.
    As it was, she used it in other ways; bringing as much
pleasure to others as she could.
    Just as she used her magic.
    If she didn’t make the rounds of the sick and aged of
the village like a Lady Bountiful, she brought them little gifts of another
sort. The village well would never run dry or foul again. Her flute and harp
were welcome additions to every celebration, from services in the village
church every Sunday, to the gatherings on holidays at the village green. They
probably would never know why the river never over-topped its banks even in the
worst flood-times, and never would guess. Anyone who fell into the river, no
matter how raging the storm, or how poor a swimmer he was, found himself
carried miraculously to the bank—and if he then betook himself to the
church to thank the Lord, that was all right with Marina. Knowing that she had
these powers would not have served them—or her.
They
would be
frightened, and she would find herself looked at, not as a kind of rustic
unicorn, rare and ornamental, but as something dark, unfathomable, and
potentially dangerous.
    Her uncles and aunt had never actually said anything about
keeping her magics a tacit secret, but their example had spoken louder than any
advice they could have given her. Margherita and Thomas’ influence
quietly ensured bountiful harvests, fertile fields, and healthy children
without any overt displays—Sebastian’s magic was less useful to the
villagers in that regard, but no one ever suffered from hearth-fires that
burned poorly, wood that produced more smoke than heat, or indeed anything
having to do with fire that went awry. It was all very quiet, very
domestic
magic; useful, though homely.
    And working it paid very subtle dividends. Although the
villagers really didn’t know the authors of their prosperity, some
instinct informed them at a level too deep for thought. So, though they often
looked a bit askance at the bohemian visitors that were often in residence at
Blackbird Cottage, they welcomed the four residents with good-natured amusement,
a touch of patronization, and probably said among themselves, “Oh, to be
sure they’re lunatics, but they’re
our
lunatics.”
    They did grant full acknowledgement of the mastery of the
talents they could understand. They thought Aunt Margherita’s weaving and
embroidery absolutely enchanting, and regarded her lace with awe. If they didn’t
understand why anyone would pay what they did for Uncle Sebastian’s