The Ginger Cat
The Ginger Cat
Lucía Ashta
Awaken to Peace Press
Copyright 2017 Lucía Ashta
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction.
Cover design by Lou Harper of Harper by Design
Awaken to Peace Press
Sedona, Arizona
www.awakentopeace.com
I strive to produce error-free books. If you discover a mistake, please contact me at luciamashta@gmail.com so I may correct it. Thank you!
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For Nadia,
the most magical cat I’ve ever known
When you believe in nothing, you believe in everything.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
The Scarlet Dragon
The Scarlet Dragon Preview
Thank you
Acknowledgments
Titles by Lucía Ashta
About the Author
Chapter 1
“You called for me, Milord?”
“No, Carlton. I didn’t,” Marcelo said. Carlton, always the devoted servant, looked crestfallen. Obviously he possessed acute hearing that traversed the normal limitations of space. He hadn’t been in the parlor when we were discussing him.
“However,” Marcelo continued, “I was about to call you. As usual, you anticipated my needs perfectly.”
Marcelo and Carlton were friends, much more so than was common for master and servant. A childhood of watching his father be demanding of the staff and harsh to a point that neared cruelty was enough to form a bond between the boy and servants. They were all victims of Marcelo’s father.
Carlton smiled gently. “Yes, Milord.”
In three quick strides that defied his age, Mordecai was next to the butler. “Carlton, we’re ready for you to teach us your version of disappearing.” Mordecai smiled brilliantly, and it was a refreshing sight. At that moment I could almost grasp Mordecai’s ability to extend his lifespan beyond its normal limits. It seemed that enthusiasm for life was at the essence of the secret to immortality. When you appreciated life fully, you were rewarded with more. Or something like that.
Yet shouldn’t it make a difference how long life was achieved? Shouldn’t it matter that Count Washur and Mirvela stole life from others in order to live longer? It should. Wickedness shouldn’t be rewarded.
But it was. At least that’s how it seemed.
Mordecai said, “So tell me, Carlton. What is it about your disappearing that’s unique?”
The last three days had been filled with learning, quenching my insatiable thirst for magical knowledge. Finally, I was beginning to understand fundamental basics of magic that Mordecai and Marcelo took for granted. All mainstream magic was dominated by spells, standard ones that an enchantment automatically updated. The fundamental spells might be the same, yet magicians lent to it their individual signature. Sometimes the differences were subtle, other times, they were sufficient to make an abrupt, utilitarian spell sing like silk curtains around an open window fluttering on a spring breeze.
Carlton wasn’t nearly as skilled as Mordecai or Marcelo, but those spells that he’d mastered, he mastered like everything else he did: with utmost perfection and decorum.
“Carlton’s disappearing magic is as smooth and rich as freshly churned butter.” Marcelo grinned as Carlton blushed under the collar, where he hoped he could hide his pleasure at the compliment. As a boy, Marcelo couldn’t get enough of Carlton’s few tricks. The butler doled them out like a treat, reserved for special moments when he wanted to indulge the boy the entire staff both loved and pitied.
Today wasn’t quite the special occasion Carlton used to reserve his magic for. However, the man couldn’t deny the importance of his contribution. He was as aware of the threat we prepared to face as we were. Even more than us, he understood the depth of Count Washur’s cruelty. He’d witnessed it almost bi-weekly toward the end of the former Count of Bundry’s life. Count Washur visited often then, when it was most important to ensure that Marcelo’s father was within his clutches.
Once again, Count Washur had a plan no one knew about but him. And we hadn’t seen its twists and turns yet.
Carlton said, “I’m pleased to contribute whatever I can to the defeat of Count Washur, Milords and Milady. I think the best way to experience how I disappear and later reappear is to do it with me.”
Marcelo smiled like a child being offered the forbidden fruit. And Mordecai, in a boisterous voice I hadn’t heard since before Count Washur’s black elephants crashed through the gates of Irele, said, “That would be wonderful.”
He and Marcelo stepped closer to Carlton.
I mimicked their actions. Marcelo reached out to hold my hand, the golden serpent and dragon of his promise ring sparking to life in a glow for a fleeting instant.
“Excuse me, Count Bundry? May I tag along as well?” I didn’t have to turn to know who spoke. Sir Lancelot’s tenor matched his petite owl body. No one I’d ever met sounded like him, both in his tone and unmatched intelligence.
“Of course you may join us, Sir Lancelot,” Marcelo said. And then, as an afterthought of respect, “If that’s agreeable to you, Carlton.”
“Yes, Milord.”
“Oh wonderful,” Sir Lancelot said as he abandoned his perch at the sunlit windowsill. He landed on my shoulder with the grace of a pygmy owl that knew more of etiquette than perhaps even Mother. “I’ve long wanted to experience disappearing magic. I’ve seen it done many times, of course, by many magicians, but not one of them thought to take me along, as if I were no more than an animal.”
I chuckled. It was an absurd thought. Sir Lancelot was less an animal than many humans I knew.
“There was this magician I met once, when I lived with the Great Bardelli. He was traveling and stopped for just two nights at the house. He used to disappear into his trunk. Can you imagine that? The disgrace of it. A magician relying on a tool instead of developing his own magic.
“Well, he used this trunk to put on magic performances. That was how he earned his way, you see. Putting on shows for the masses. Quite humiliating, if you ask me. A magician should have a sense of dignity, no matter what circumstance he’s in.” Sir Lancelot’s feathers ruffled at the thought of such an affront to the name of magic.
“This man, his name was Thomaso Giardo, lugged this big trunk to the parlor
just to show the Great Bardelli his trick. Needless to say, Bardelli was unimpressed. He was a true magician. He used tools to suit his needs, like all magicians do, but never to replace the development of his own magic.
“So Thomaso got in his trunk, closed the lid, and asked one of the servants to open it. Of course, he was gone when the lid was opened. And, you can imagine, he returned once it was closed again. Very basic. Very boring. Still, he performed this for us several times. The third time—“
“Sir Lancelot, perhaps you might save the rest of this story for Clara’s magical history studies,” Marcelo said, ignoring my plaintive look.
“Yes, yes, of course. You know me, Count Bundry. Once I get going, sometimes there’s just so much to say. I have a perfect memory, and I never forget a single thing, not even one word. I remember the name of every single person I’ve ever met, even those I wish I could forget.”
“Yes, Sir Lancelot, I’m aware,” Marcelo cut him off. “That’s one of the many things that makes you so special.”
Sir Lancelot beamed, and I secretly applauded Marcelo’s smooth handling. We all took another step closer to Carlton.
“So how do you want to do this, my boy?” Since Mordecai was older than most people alive, everyone was a boy or a girl to him.
“I’ve never taken anyone with me before. I imagine it might be best if you all hold onto me. It will make the connection stronger.”
“Wait. Is there something I need to do?” Was this yet another instance of my magician teachers forgetting to explain things? Even though they were holding to their promises and finally teaching me in concrete terms, they still expected me to catch on quickly, and skipped over the instructions due a novice like me.
Carlton’s smile was kind. He was a great improvement over Irele’s butler, Robert, who always behaved as if I’d offended him with a bad odor.
“Lady Clara, it should be sufficient for you to intend to come along with me.”
I smiled back at Carlton and did my best to ignore the should be in his statement. My life was one possibility of success after another—with just as great a possibility of failure.
“Better than explain how it is, let’s do it.” Now Carlton sounded like a true magician and not a butler. “Hold onto me tightly.”
“Excellent,” Marcelo said.
The last coherent thought I had was at the irony of it. The one time I actually got someone to show me magic when I wanted, I wasn’t ready for it.
Chapter 2
My brain rattled so much I felt it would separate from my skull and smash into a thousand pieces.
Everything was blurry.
I saw snatches of Carlton, composed as ever, and Mordecai, grinning like a child. I tried to turn to look at Marcelo, but couldn’t. All I saw of him was a rush of raven black where I knew his hair must be. I attempted to lift a hand to steady my owl friend, fearing the worst for him. If I felt like this, what must be happening to him with as small as he was?
I couldn’t lift my hand, however. I couldn’t do much of anything but hold onto Carlton as if my life depended on my all-too-tenuous hold on the spring-wool-blend fabric of his charcoal gray trousers.
Just when I didn’t think I could stand a second longer, that surely that was my last thought before my brain would finally burst in a bloody mess, the world stilled.
Amid the fog and incredulity, I registered Mordecai’s clap and gleeful laugh. “My dear boy, Marcelo wasn’t exaggerating. That was truly a joy. How wonderful and smooth. You’ll have to explain your secret trick.”
I plummeted to the floor, my forehead pressed against the hard, cold stone floor. Sir Lancelot flew off in flustered flaps.
“Clara.” Marcelo sank to the floor next to me. “What happened? Are you all right?”
I couldn’t answer. I might never be able to answer a single question again. My brain was scrambled.
I registered Marcelo’s hand against my back, and I wanted him to remove it as soon as he touched me. But I couldn’t tell him. I swallowed the urge to vomit with each comforting swipe of his hand that swept across my dress.
I sat up. The room swirled while I swallowed nausea. Three magicians and one owl stared at me. At least, I assumed that’s what they were doing from the colorful blurs.
Sounds started to come through.
“What—?”
“Is she—?”
“Shouldn’t we—?”
“Yes, let us—“
The details were lost on me. I couldn’t even distinguish one male voice from the other. Even Sir Lancelot’s high pitch was indistinct.
I found myself flying and I wondered with my first lucid thought if I might be the one making myself fly. So much of my magic happened without my knowing or understanding.
It seemed wildly unsafe to be flying now when I couldn’t even stand.
I was able to notice the concern in everyone’s face. Even Mordecai’s crinkly eyes showed signs of worry amid the enthusiasm, which hadn’t faded.
I could see everyone again. My head stopped spinning. Eyes and frowns came into sudden focus.
And then I laughed. I couldn’t stop myself. It didn’t matter that I had no idea why I was laughing. It didn’t matter that our lives were threatened with darkness and death. Life was infinitely wilder and more unbelievable than even my fairy tale books of childhood suggested.
I suddenly realized why not everyone could be a magician. It took a certain freedom from expectation and restraint to step into. It took a quality that human society tried to breed out of its members. I decided then that all magicians must have a hint of insanity to them, and that each of us was unique and different from one another, because no seed of madness was identical to the next. I still haven’t changed my mind.
But in madness there is power. Insanity—or a variation from the norm that attempts to define sanity—gifts freedom to anyone that possesses it. Madness is a great gift when allowed to exist free of the terrifying sanatoriums.
I laughed harder. The Count and Countess of Norland tried so hard to keep me from transforming into who I was steadily becoming. But it didn’t work. Not one bit. The feverish power was always within me. There was never a time that I wasn’t a witch, even before I realized I was one.
All of a sudden my laughter didn’t ring through the castle alone. Mordecai laughed first. Then Carlton chuckled. It wasn’t appropriate for a butler to laugh at a member of the family, which I already partly was. But once Mordecai laughed so freely, Carlton couldn’t hold back. He looked to Marcelo for approval even while his mouth burst open and the forbidden sound tumbled out.
Carlton found consent in Marcelo’s face, and he laughed as loudly as I did. Then Marcelo laughed too. The only one to remain silent was Sir Lancelot, who was unable to surpass notions of decorum.
But the day was young, and so was the journey we’d all share together. Not one of us there would remain the same after we faced Count Washur and the plot he was engineering against us even while we laughed.
In that particular type of madness we all shared was the start of a brotherhood. (I would have liked perhaps to call it a sisterhood, or something that honored me as a part of our group. Despite my newfound power, I still lived in a world of men that used terms developed by men. But even that would change with time. Everything would change. Nothing was immune to the transformation that had begun long before we identified it.) Our brotherhood would expand to incorporate new members and new powers, yet the bond that held us all together would remain strong.
Amid my laughter I was reminded of sayings I grew up hearing, but never fully understood—or perhaps I gave them new meaning then. There is strength in numbers. There was. I didn’t feel like the lone instrument of Count Washur’s defeat anymore. In the unspoken laughter we shared, we spoke what we didn’t know to put into words. We each had different skills. We were powerful in our own way. Suddenly, there was a great big burst of hope that swam in front of my eyes, blurry from the tears of so much illogical
laughter. I reached for it as another cliché held fresh meaning: A chain is only as strong as its weakest link.
I could feel the strength growing within me each moment, pulsing with life just as the five-petal knot thrummed next to my beating heart. I didn’t need to understand why I was the only one not to think Carlton’s disappearing act smooth as butter.
I was different. Not only was I all right with being different, I was renewed in that knowing. I didn’t experience anything like others did.
It was my time.
Chapter 3
Marcelo insisted that I remain lying down on the settee where they’d placed me, but there was no need. I’d done that enough to last me a great while since meeting Marcelo.
I sat up to face the magicians I realized I loved more than I’d ever loved my parents. I loved not just Marcelo as my fiancé; I loved every man there, including Sir Lancelot. I was transforming into someone free with her heart. Even then, I somehow knew that was the cause of my growing power, or at least a great contributor.