[written on the 2nd and the 3rd]

Victoria is clean. really, really clean. it's rather unreal; freshly scrubbed doormen with British or impeccable Ontario accents hold doors open for us, everywhere we go. it's like the disneyland version of canada: a canada that takes a secret, guilty pleasure in its imperial past.

It's a lovely place to visit, to stroll. the hotel we're staying in is about three notches nicer than one I'd choose for myself, set a little ways away from the bustle of downtown. it's really nice. I thought mom would like it, and she does. the doormen are, again, very friendly. they smile, and the odd part is that I think they actually mean it.

it rained most of the morning, off and on; when the sun finally broke through the clouds, we were having tea, and we were ready to go back to the hotel for a nap and some quiet time. I walked her all over today--we went in search of a drug store before tea, and ended up walking about ten regular city blocks. a long way for my mom. we did get there and back again, but it was a tiring walk--even for me, and I'm used to this sort of thing.

my mom is a good traveling companion for me. we're both dedicated to being cheerful and pleasant traveling companions, and unlike me she's not impatient while traveling. I tend to be a little bit antsy when faced with a line, but to all appearances she never is. she doesn't have unlimited energy, and she tires more quickly than I do, but I expect it and plan around it.

so far, we're having a lovely time.

***

story start, inspired by Victoria:

[keep in mind here that I have *no* idea what year this is set in, and I don't have a good grasp on the niceties of high society. So. This is just out of my brain, no resources—I was on the boat back from Victoria when I wrote most of this.]

the wind picked up the spray and drove it against the ship and Clara, who was holding onto the railing with one hand and attempting to hold her hair back from her face with the other. she'd forgotten in the months prior to this voyage how much she liked traveling by boat; with her father's illness she'd had precious little time it sail. She laughed at the way the wind swept around her legs; had she been in a skirt, it would have lifted right up. Not being a proper sort of lady had its benefits, one of them being that she felt free to wear pants just like a man whenever it was needful.

The sailors had stopped staring at her a day or two after she'd boarded the ship in San Francisco. for a bit, she'd felt like an exotic ani8mal someone had shipped aboard; they stared but none would speak with her. after they'd gotten used to her, some of the more daring ones had said a polite word or two to her, but none of them were overly friendly, still.

She ignored them. she was used to it.

The ship flew through the waves. The heavy winds were going in the right direction, driving them to the island that was going to become her home for the next few years.

she preferred to think of it as home, not exile.

It was easier that way.

As they pulled into the inner harbor and towards the waiting berth, she went downstairs and changed her clothes into something that wouldn't garner open stares on the street. She put back into her trunks the few things she'd used during the voyage. The last thing she did was open a small wooden box and mentally inventory all of the jewelry she'd brought with her. All was present and accounted for, and she slipped a large silver and moonstone ring onto one hand, and touched each of the stones in her bracelet and necklace, feeling their familiar spark of warmth. Better safe than sorry, after all. the box went into her handbag, and she closed and locked the trunks.

She'd been told that she'd need to hire a carriage to take her out to the estate when she arrived, and that carriages would only leave early in the morning, as it was a four-hour drive to the estate and all of the carraigers wanted to be in town by dark for the night trade, carrying the townspeople to and fro--much more profitable than a single long haul, any day. So, she needed a hotel; and fortunately the only one that was recommended was near to hand--the imposing facade of the Empress. A boy with a cart offered to take her luggage, and she let him, following him from the wharf to the road and walking down to the hotel.

It felt good to stretch her legs after all that time spent cooped up in the ship. After arriving in the hotel, she left her trunks with the bellhop and went inside to request a room for the night.

"...and shall you be needing anything else?"
"Yes, a hot bath, and dinner--I've heard your dining room is excellent."
"Very well. And your name?"
She placed her right hand, the one with the moonstone on it, on the counter. "Clarice Demaria, the Lady Westharris."
The man blinked, and then stared. Clara smiled slightly, and with a thought, the moonstone and all of the other gems on her body began to glow slightly. "Yes, monsieur. I am of those Demarias. I request to not be disturbed unnecessarily. Please, show me to my room."

The man fell over his own feet in his haste to comply. Clara had to smile. Sometimes, being a wizard was its own reward.

After a night spent on a real feather bed for what felt like the first time in forever, she washed up in the morning and was ready in a traveling-dress at eight o'clock sharp. The coachman was a sharp-looking fellow, one of those genial northwesterners with a friendly smile and a gentle hand with his horses. Clara liked him immediately, for no real reason.

Soon enough, her trunks were loaded up and they were off to the estate of Whitewing. Going home, she reminded herself. Going home. Or as close to it as she would have for the next few years. The road was rutted but not too bad, and the spring scenery was beautiful--there was something about this land and the ocean climate that made it incredibly fertile. Her father had told her she'd like it, the grey skies and the rain and the incredibly green and lush growth.

Clara looked out the window and napped a bit, and when at last the carriage turned and went through a set of ornate gates, herons and otter forever frozen in wrought iron. And up the now cobble stoned drive, to the front of a house the likes of which she'd only seen a few times in her life--all of them in England/

She sat, staring. She was in front of a *castle*. A castle made out of some sort of light stone, with a large front door and expansive stairs leading to it. As she got out of the carriage, she stared up--and up--and up. She tried not to gape. She'd been in some of the finest homes in the world, but this--this was beyond her expectation of the place. this was exile, after all. exile was not supposed to be in castles.

"Well, father did say I'd like it..." she murmured to herself. Just then, an officious man bustled down the stairs, smiling at her.

"You must be the young Lady Westharris. I am the butler, Ellis Georges. Welcome to your new home."

"Thank you, Mr. Georges. It's lovely to be here."

"Now, these are your trunks, are they not? Good, good, we'll put them in the lord's suite. Go right inside, I'll be right there."

The door opened into a short entrance hall, the inner doors standing open. Clara went through the inner doors, and thought, just for the moment, that she'd arrived in heaven and hadn't been notified. The paneling was of some medium-toned wood, likely oak, and was carved in curved and scrolled patterns. The floor was marble, with a great warm rug over it, and the great staircase led away behind her. Clara reminded herself not to gape. Here she'd thought she was coming to an unsophisticated backwater, when all along this was waiting for her? Suddenly, she began to look forward to the prospect of staying here for a while. it was, after all, beautiful, and likely peaceful...

Mr. Georges strode in behind her. "I'll have the house matron give you the grand tour later. for now, come with me and I'll show you to the lord's suite, where you'll be staying at least for the night." They went up that grand staircase and two more like it, to a suite that managed to be light-filled despite the heavy woodwork and stone it was made out of. Clara was delighted. This was beyond her expectations.

"Ah. Mr. Georges? I don't suppose I might be able to get something to eat..."

"Why, yes, I'm certain that the cook can whip some tea up for you. Would you like to come down to the drawing room? that way, you can speak to the house matron, as well."

"Give me a moment to wash up, and I'll be right there." Georges gave her directions to the sitting room and promptly disappeared.

After refreshing herself, she went back down to the first floor, running her hands lightly along the scrollwork of the wood bemusedly.

The drawing room was richly appointed with a finely detailed painted ceiling, little tables, and furniture that looked more decorative than comfortable. She chose the chair that looked the most comfortable and sat, waiting for the house matron, who appeared in due course.

"Lady Westharris? Ah, there you are. Bess will b e in soon enough with the tea, but I thought I'd come and introduce myself. I'm Mrs. Gerisol, the house matron."

"Charmed to meet you, Mrs. Gerisol. Do pull up a chair?"

The matron was a woman of late middle age, with a white cap and apron over dark clothes. She looked kindly, but there was a hint of steel in those eyes. This was someone to remain on the good side of, if at all possible. The matron had far-reaching responsibilities, and it was to her that most of the day-to-day running of the house would fall. Her favor would mean the difference between a miserable exile and a place to call home.

Bess, a lanky teenager, scurried in with the tea cart. She was all eyes as she unleaded the tea and cakes and sandwiches on the side table, trying not to stare overmuch at the new mistress of the household. Mrs. Gerisol said, "That will do, Bess" and the girl spun and retreated, only to come back, drop a little curtsey and then retreat again.

"Will you join me, Mrs. Gerisol?" Clara said, gesturing at the tea.

"Ah, no, I couldn't; I already had my tea. But thank you."

Clara poured herself a cup of tea. "Let us be perfectly frank, Mrs. Gerisol. I am of the San Francisco Demarias, related closely to the London Demarias. My family for the last hundred years have all been wizards of various levels of power, some of them more so than others. I am one of them; I went to the College Invisible along with my brothers and the one sister who showed some interest in developing her talent. My father, for reasons of his own, has sent me here, and it is here I must stay. I know wizards are scarce in this end of the world; how will the staff react to having a female wizard among them? It is bad enough that I am a wizard, but more people have problems with me being female than you'd suspect."

Mrs. Gerisol considered. "Georges will be fine. He's a man of upstanding character, that one. The head gardener will be more than fine, I'm married to the man, and he's been talking of nothing but meeting you and making the gardens ready for you for months. The cook is a woman of a hot temper but her anger never lasts; she's likely to grumble for a while, but all will be well in the end. As for the rest of the maids and gardeners and assorted staff, you're mostly a curiosity than anything else. Wizards are not bogeymen here like they are in England, and your father was kind enough to everyone when he visited."

"You've been to England?"

"Oh, yes, the old missus took me when I was a lady's-maid to her, a number of years ago. 'twas so sad when they were all carried off."

"Scarlet fever?" Clara knew there had been an outbreak a few years ago.

"Aye, and then a boating accident stole the life of the last son. Bonny lad named Thomas."

"Ah, how sad." Clara paused and sipped her tea. "So, a few things that I'd appreciate you passing along, especially to the maids. First, I am not to be disturbed in my rooms, especially in the morning. I wake up slowly, and I'm apt to startle easily. You may knock, but do not enter unless invited to do so.

"Second, any items marked with this sigil--" She took off her moonstone ring, and showed the inside surface to the other woman. "--the open eye crossed by the moon, are not to be touched by anyone but myself. If touched or disturbed by someone who is not me, they will first give a warning tingle, like the pins and needles from sitting too long. Then they will deliver a nasty shock of pain, and then if they are not let go of, they will put the disturber into a deep sleep that they will not wake up from on their own. A few items will have both the eye and moon and an eight-pointed star, and these will do nasty things other than cast a sleep on the person who tries to carry them off. Most of my things are perfectly harmless, and those that are not are clearly marked.

"Also, I will be commandeering a workroom, and that will be off-limits to everyone except me and possibly an apprentice, should I ever choose to take one. The door will be clearly marked, and will be locked.

"I think that's all I need to tell you about the wearing I'll be doing. I'll answer any questions to the best of my ability."

Mrs. Gerisol simply nodded. "That's all I need to know. So, will you be throwing some dinners or a dance? It's somewhat expected, you know."

"Yes, but, oh, not for another month or two! I have so much to do to get settled in. I didn't bring much in the way of clothing; is there a good seamstress available to you?"

"Oh, yes! Eileen does marvelous things, really, both for fancywork and for regular. She can be out in a few days to do measuring and talk about what you want, or you can go to her shop."

"I think I'll go there. Victoria is such a lovely town."

"I'll send a message to town and make an appointment for you. I'll leave you now to your tea; I've work to do."

"Thank you for your time, Mrs. Gerisol." The older woman left, leaving the scent of powder behind her.

Clara munched sandwiches and thought. It looked like she'd be mostly left to her own devices, which was a good thing; she could do with some solitude after the journey. In fact, she could really use with a long walk outdoors. Her father had mentioned something about spectacular gardens, and she wanted to see for herself.

Except that now she was all alone in a huge house, and she had no real idea where the e3xit even was. However, in the main hall she ran into Mrs. Gerisol, who directed her to the door and told her which direction that gardens were.

The back door of the castle opened out intro an Italian garden, which was slightly austere for Clara's tastes, but she acknowledged that it would be lovely for entertaining. A long pool ran the length of the garden, and adjacent was a flat sward that would likely be used for tennis and croquet and other lawn games.

Out the back of the Italian garden ran a path. Clara had been told that of she just kept to the left, she would see almost everything, and get an idea of the layout of the gardens. She took the left fork and walked along the meandering path, noticing that there are a couple of walled gardens along the way. Probably kitchen gardens, walled to keep them from public view.

The next garden that she walked through was an Oriental garden, and Clara sighed in happiness when she saw the lovely drooping maples and the dear little bridges, complete with a bamboo tea house in the center of the garden. She was sad to leave it behind, but she knew she could come back and linger, if she wanted.

Next, she walked up and over a small ridge, and caught her breath. A marvelous, lush sunken garden greeted her, with winding paths, streams, and small waterfalls invited her to linger. This was what her father had meant when he said that she would love the gardens here. He knew how being surrounded by plants soothed her.

She had to linger; she had no choice. She walked slowly along the path, drinking it all in; the statuary half-hidden by low plants, the ivy climbing the rocky walls of the garden, the music of the streams flowing around well-placed stones. Whoever ad built this must have been a wizard, she thought; the place not only seemed full of benign enchantment, it seemed to invite the weary soul to rest and lay the troubled spirit down.

In the center of the garden was an ivy-covered rock formation, jutting up in the middle of the garden. there were stairs to climb, and as she did she noticed the nearly-hidden hooks for hanging decorations or wind chimes. Up on the top, she discovered a small flat area with carved stone seats, affording a lovely view of the entire garden, down to the lake at one end that wasn't visible from the end she'd walked into, and a most intriguing glimpse at some rock formations off to the west.

Clara blinked, then smiled, and sank down onto her heels. Her hunch was right, revealed by the sheltering low walls of the top of the rocks. This was an essentially private location, shielded from view, yet deliciously exposed to the elements. Any intruders would have to cross the rest of the garden and come up the stairs to interrupt her, which made it perfect for the few wizardries that needed to be done outdoors and certain pursuits that were even more private....

Clara stopped the thought, blushing,. Who knew if she would even find anyone here? If she did, though, she meant to bring them up to this lovely little aerie.

Down the stairs, then, and on through the gardens. The next gardens confirmed her thought that a wizard had had a hand in designing the gardens, as in a grove there was a perfect, if small, replica of an Irish stone circle. complete with altar. "Beautiful," she murmured to herself.

On the way back were some lovely arbors and a rose garden that looked to be a month or two away from blooming. Clara sat on a bench with her face to the sun, drinking it all in.

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