The Gates of Sleep Read Online Free PDF Page A

cream—Uncle Sebastian persuaded a Salamander to take charge of
the fires in the stove. Uncle Sebastian was passionately fond of his food, and
to his mind it was a small enough contribution on his part for so great a gain.
The meals that their cook and general housekeeper Sarah made were good; solid
cottager fare. But the contributions that Margherita concocted transformed
cooking to another art form. Earth Masters were like that, according to what
Uncle Thomas said; they often practiced as much magic in the kitchen as out of
it.
    Of all of the wonderful food that his spouse produced,
Uncle Sebastian most adored the uniquely Devon cream tea—scones, clotted
cream, and jam. Margherita made her very own clotted cream, which not all Devon
or Cornish ladies did—a great many relied on the dairies to make it for
them. The shallow pan of heavy cream simmering in its water-bath would
certainly make Uncle Sebastian happy when he saw it.
    “Shall I make the scones, Aunt?” Marina asked
after a stir of the soup pot and a peek at the cream. Her aunt smiled
seraphically over her shoulder. She was a beautiful woman, the brown of her
hair still as rich as it had been when she was Marina’s age, her figure
only a little plumper (if her husband’s paintings from that time were any
guide), her large brown eyes serene. The only reason her husband wasn’t
using
her
as his model instead of Marina was that she had her own
artistic work, and wasn’t minded to give it over just to pose for her
spouse, however beloved he was. Posing was Marina’s contribution to the
family welfare, since she was nowhere near the kind of artist that her aunt and
uncles were.
    “That would be a great help, dearest,”
Margherita replied, continuing to slice bread for luncheon. “Would you
prefer cress or cucumber?”
    “Cress, please. And deviled ham, if there is any.”
    “Why a Water-child should have such an appetite for a
Fire food, I cannot fathom,” Margherita replied, with a laugh. “I
have deviled ham, of course; Sebastian would drive me out of the house if I
didn’t.”
    Margherita did not do all of the cooking, not even with
Marina’s help; she did luncheon most days, and tea, and often made
special supper dishes with her own hands, but for the plain cooking and other
kitchen work there was old Sarah, competent and practical. Sarah wasn’t
the only servant; for the housecleaning and maid—of—all—work
they had young Jenny, and for the twice-yearly spring and fall house cleaning,
more help from Jenny’s sisters. A man, unsurprisingly named John, came
over from the neighboring farm twice a week (except during harvest) to do the
yard-work and anything the uncles couldn’t do. There wasn’t much of
that; Thomas was handy with just about any tool, and Sebastian, when he wasn’t
in the throes of a creative frenzy, was willing to pitch in on just about any
task.
    Marina stirred up the scone dough, rolled it out, cut the
rounds with a biscuit cutter and arrayed them in a baking pan and slipped them
into the oven. By the time they were ready, Margherita had finished making
sandwiches with brown and white bread, and had stacked them on a plate.
    Sarah and Jenny appeared exactly when they were wanted to
help set up the table in the dining room for luncheon: more of Margherita’s
Earth magic at work to call them silently from their other tasks? Not likely.
It was probably just that old Sarah had been with the family since the
beginning, and young Jenny had been with them nearly as long—she was only
“young” relative to Sarah.
    After being cooped up all morning in the studio, Marina was
in no mood to remain indoors. Rather than sit down at the table with her uncles
and aunt, she wrapped some of the sandwiches in a napkin, took a bottle of
homemade ginger beer from the pantry, put both in a basket with one of her
lesson books, and ran out—at last!—into the sunshine.
    She swung the basket as she ran, taking in great breaths of
the autumn