Love, Lies, and Hocus Pocus Legends

by Lydia Sherrer

  “Waiting for me to fall asleep so you can sneak off and cause more mischief? I haven’t forgotten this morning, you know,” Lily said darkly.

  “If I did my job right, you won’t ever forget this morning,” he said smugly, showing not a shred of guilt. He even blinked, the universal sign of cat contentment.

  Lily considered several heated replies, but discarded each, knowing from experience that she would not come away the victor in such an argument. Finally she settled for, “My personal life is none of your business.”

  “If it makes you feel better to imagine that, then by all means, keep thinking it.”

  Lily glowered at him, lips pursed. A price indeed. “Just be careful, okay? We’re not in America anymore. There could be wildlife out there you’re not used to,” she said, thinking of the half-glimpsed silver fox. “Plus I don’t know how they treat strays around here.”

  “Who says I’m going anywhere? Maybe I’m just guarding the door.”

  “Like a dog? Yeah right,” Lily rolled her eyes and turned over, switching off the light and giving up worrying about her cat. Alright, so she tried to give it up, was unsuccessful, and finally pushed it aside to worry about more constructive things, like not embarrassing herself in front of Helen Pemberton tomorrow. Silence settled over the hotel room, broken only by faint sounds from the street below. At no point that she could remember before slipping into sleep’s embrace did her door open and close. At least, not that she heard.

  The Clarendon building, originally constructed to house the Oxford University Press, had since been given over to the Bodleian Library system for office and meeting space. It was situated on the south side of Broad Street, directly north of the Old Bodleian, the university’s oldest library, and the Radcliffe Camera, a more recent but still almost three-century-old building.

  Lily looked with longing at the Old Bodleian as she passed, wanting to explore its ancient and heavenly corridors but forcing herself to stay focused. She’d decided to walk the short fifteen-minute distance instead of bothering Hawkins this early in the morning, having left Sir Kipling with strict instructions to keep an eye on Sebastian while she was gone. She realized her cat would just as likely encourage, rather than discourage, her friend’s impetuous behavior. But at least it got him out of her hair and away from buildings with a strict no-animal policy.

  The woman at the front desk was expecting her and gave her a visitor’s badge before directing her several floors up to Mrs. Pemberton’s office. Lily tried not to be too jealous of all the people who got to live and work in Oxford. Her job back home was no joke, but this…this was Oxford.

  Mrs. Pemberton’s office door was open, so Lily knocked on the doorframe as she stuck her head in. “Hello? Ms. Pemberton?”

  The woman who looked up had a plump and slightly harried-looking face framed by short grey curls. Seeing Lily, however, she smiled in welcome and got up from her desk, coming forward to shake her hand. “Ms. Singer, I presume? A pleasure, of course. Please, sit down. Can I offer you a cup of tea?” She spoke quickly in a businesslike tone, and Lily had a fleeting urge to move to England just to be surrounded by British accents all day.

  “It’s wonderful to meet you Ms. Pemberton. And no thank you, I just had a cup with breakfast.”

  “Excellent, then. To business.” Mrs. Pemberton sat back down and bent to shuffle through some drawers, pulling out a sheaf of papers and an official-looking card. Far from making Lily nervous, Mrs. Pemberton’s brusqueness actually made her feel much better. This woman was all business and didn’t expect any sort of chit-chat or awkward social niceties. It was Lily’s favorite kind of interaction.

  “Here is your orientation packet with an overview of important rules and regulations, a map of the university and library system, and a list of helpful resources. As we discussed over the phone, I’m giving you visiting researcher status with accompanying ID and library card, which will give you access to all of our libraries, buildings, and research material, excepting of course that of the individual colleges. If you need anything from them you can send a request to be granted special access. Officially, you’re here as a professional partner to study our preservation and archive techniques and tour our facilities. Unofficially, of course, I know you have your own research to do, so no one is currently expecting you. If, however, you find time during or after you’ve completed your research, I’m more than happy to schedule you to work with our archivists for a few days. You have my contact information and I’m generally good at returning calls as long as it’s not the beginning or end of term.” She gave a strained smile and Lily nodded in sympathy. Agnes Scott had a measly thousand students compared to Oxford’s tens of thousands. “But that’s not till the beginning of October so you should be fine. Do you have any questions?”

  Slightly blown away by the speed at which Mrs. Pemberton imparted all that information, Lily took a moment to think before answering as she rifled through the sheaf of papers. “It looks like most of the information I’ll need is here. But if there comes a time when I’m unable to find what I’m looking for in the online database, whom should I ask for help finding material on Morgan le Fay? I don’t want to raise any eyebrows. Can I work with the mundane library staff or is there anyone in particular I should speak to?”

  “Ah, yes, I’m glad you asked. Dr. Cyril Hawtrey is the one you’re looking for. He’s a professor of early medieval history from Balliol college. As it happens, he’s also our foremost expert on Arthurian legend. I took the liberty of contacting him regarding your visit and he is extremely interested to hear you have records of new primary source material. He is eager to meet you and go over the documents.”

  Lily was at once relieved and worried. She was relieved that such an expert existed and, even better, was a wizard himself—the very one Madam Barrington had recommended she contact. But she was worried that Cyril’s scholarly thirst for knowledge might interfere with their mission. For all she knew, he would want to come with them on their search. And she didn’t exactly want to open up about her family’s dark secrets to a person whose job it was to preserve the knowledge of things she would rather forget.

  Despite her misgivings, she smiled at Mrs. Pemberton and nodded gratefully. “That’s wonderful. If you can direct me to his office, I’ll stop by as soon as we’re done here.”

  Mrs. Pemberton took out a red pen and marked the spot on Lily’s map, writing down the address and office number as well. “Was there anything else?” she asked when she was finished.

  “Yes. If it becomes necessary, is there someone who can give me a tour of the main libraries, or at least the Old Bodleian? I’m rather pressed for time and I would hate to waste it getting lost.”

  “Certainly,” Mrs. Pemberton said. “Just ask to see a staff member at whatever building you’re visiting and let them know I’ve specially requested you be given whatever assistance necessary. I doubt any of the librarians themselves will have time, but they’ll have an intern or trainee who can show you around.”

  “Wonderful,” Lily said, slipping the papers and card into her bag, then standing to shake Mrs. Pemberton’s hand again. “I am beyond indebted to you for arranging everything and making it possible for me to use your university’s resources. It may well save a great many lives down the road.”

  Mrs. Pemberton’s eyebrows rose briefly at Lily’s rather dramatic statement, but she didn’t question it. “Anything for a friend of Ethel’s. I only wish she could have come, too. I haven’t seen her since before she retired. How is she doing?”

  “Um…” Lily swallowed but managed to keep the smile fixed on her face. “A bit under the weather. But I’m sure she’ll feel better soon. I’ll send her your regards.”

  “Please do, and good luck with your research.”

  Lily thanked her again and left the office, heading out of the building and west down Broad Street. She’d actually passed Balliol College on her way to the Clarendon building. It sat on the north side of Broad Street be
tween Trinity College and Magdalen Street, and she admired its yellow stone façade as she passed. She was headed several blocks past Balliol College to the History Faculty building. At Magdalen Street, Broad Street turned into George Street and continued west toward the River Thames.

  At the History Faculty building, she showed her new ID and signed in before being directed to Dr. Hawtrey’s office. Unlike Mrs. Pemberton’s, his door was closed and she knocked, standing nervously in the hall as she waited. It crossed her mind that she hadn’t yet seen any signs of magic around her at Oxford and she wondered if that was because wizards had made an effort to keep it out of so public a place, because there were so few wizards left, or because they were better at hiding it than she realized.

  The door opened on a much younger man than she’d expected. He appeared to be in his early forties—though of course, with wizards, the older they were, the harder it was to tell—with sandy hair and blue eyes that widened in pleasure at the sight of her. His wide mouth curved in a welcoming smile as he stuck out his hand to shake.

  “Ms. Singer, I presume? Welcome, welcome! Please, come in.” He opened the door wide and beckoned her into his office. As with most things in England, the space was small. But with the high ceiling, whitewashed walls, and view out onto a green lawn, it didn’t feel too cramped. Well, at least it wouldn’t have if the other occupant in the room had looked a bit less…picturesque. She’d expected a grey-haired, wrinkled, bespectacled professor with a back bent from thousands of hours studying old manuscripts. What she got instead was entirely too handsome for comfort.

  She did her best to hide her unease, however, and sat down in the proffered chair, politely refusing her second cup of tea that morning.

  Dr. Hawtrey finally sat as well, leaning forward with his elbows on the desk and hands folded in front of him as he gazed at Lily with contained excitement. “Well, well, this is a pleasure, I must say. I confess I was skeptical when Mrs. Pemberton told me a young wizard wanted help doing research on Morgan le Fay and claimed to have primary source material. But that’s honestly just so I wouldn’t get my hopes up. We haven’t found any new documentation relating to King Arthur in quite some time, especially nothing written during his lifetime. If you’ll excuse my forwardness, might I see the material?”

  Lily reflexively put a hand on her bag, reluctant to confide in this man. While his demeanor seemed entirely open and innocent, she couldn’t help but be reminded of her father’s own intense eagerness when talking about the LeFay’s history and legacy. The fact that he was good-looking made it even worse. She’d always been terrible at talking to handsome men, and now here was a handsome man with a British accent to boot.

  “Um, well, Dr. Hawtrey—”

  “Please, call me Cyril. There’s no need to stand on ceremony.”

  Lily swallowed, his friendliness having the opposite effect than he intended. Formality was her only defense. “Right, yes. Cyril…before I, um, show you what I brought, I was hoping I could, um, ask you a few questions?”

  “Certainly,” he said, looking surprised but still friendly. “Ask away.”

  “Right, um, first of all, could you tell me a bit more about your relationship with Dr. Grootenboer?”

  He leaned back, looking thoughtful. “Well, she was the head of the history department for many years and my supervisor for both my masters and DPhil. So I guess you could say she was my superior as well as my mentor. But she retired about ten years ago. Why? Is there a problem?” he asked, looking genuinely confused.

  “No, not at all,” Lily hurried to say, still wondering how in the world to know if she could trust this man. As uncomfortable as it made her, she had the feeling she wouldn’t know unless she asked. “It’s just that, well, I thought maybe you knew…well perhaps not, I know it’s a very large university, but would you happen to have met a man named John Faust LeFay at any point? He was a student here in the early eighties I believe.”

  Cyril’s face turned thoughtful once more. “Hmm, LeFay? I’m familiar with the family name, of course, but I don’t believe I ever met the man. He would have been a little before my time. I started in the late eighties. But if any of his degree courses had to do with history, he more than likely studied under Dr. Grootenboer at some point. Does he have something to do with the primary source material?” he asked.

  It took quite a bit of effort not to sigh in relief. She could detect no hint of deception in Cyril’s face or voice. Of course, she hadn’t noticed any in her father either, at least not at first. But there had always been a sneaking suspicion that she’d pushed away, and that feeling was completely absent with Cyril. So, at least he wasn’t connected to her father. Madam Barrington trusted him, of course, but she’d felt the need to check, just in case. Hopefully, unlike her father, Cyril’s interest in Morgan le Fay was completely academic.

  “The two are related,” Lily said evasively, then moved on to another question. “If you don’t mind me asking, I’ve been wondering about the state of wizards and magic at Oxford. My teacher, Madam Barrington, said you were the one to ask about it. You see, I haven’t seen or felt any magic at all within the city, not even in your or Mrs. Pemberton’s office. Most wizards I’ve met so far, though I have to admit I haven’t met many, have at least warded their personal spaces and homes.”

  “Well, that’s easy to answer,” Cyril laughed, expression clearing. “I certainly ward my home, and I’m sure Mrs. Pemberton and the other wizards at Oxford do as well. But our offices aren’t our homes. They are historic buildings many hundreds of years old and we wouldn’t dream of defacing them with ward anchors, especially since our offices move around from time to time. In any case, there’s really no need. One of us might cast the occasional spell here and there, but on the whole magic isn’t as useful as it used to be, not with so much mundane technology. I must admit I even use my archiving spells less and less these days. Every year the internet and online databasing become more advanced. They’re just as useful, and certainly less dangerous, than magic.”

  Lily found herself nodding in agreement, though his words weren’t entirely accurate. It was only everyday things that were easily replaced by technology. There were plenty more esoteric, and dangerous, spells that mundane technology couldn’t even begin to replicate. Still, his words brought on a strange sadness she couldn’t explain.

  “Now, I can’t say I speak for the majority of wizards. Here at Oxford we take a more open-minded view of mundane research. I suppose we’ve embraced it in a way. It’s all part of the search for knowledge, since it’s rather hard to study and experiment with magic in such a public place. I wouldn’t say any great advances in magic are happening at Oxford. We certainly do our best to preserve any magical knowledge we have, but it seems more a thing of the past than the future.”

  Quiet descended, both seemingly preoccupied with their thoughts. Finally, Lily broke the silence. “You mentioned other wizards at Oxford. How many are there, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  Cyril thought for a moment, as if counting in his head. “Eight—no, seven. Dr. Hughes retired last year.”

  Interesting, Lily thought. So her father had been incorrect, or at least uninformed. He’d said there were only two. Perhaps their numbers had grown? That seemed unlikely. It was more plausible that they simply hadn’t wanted, or had no reason, to be acquainted with her father. Lily felt relieved at the thought.

  “I’m happy to answer your questions,” Cyril said, leaning forward again to look at her intently, “but what do they have to do with the documents you brought?”

  Lily looked down at her hands, awkward once again and unsure how to explain the situation in a way that didn’t sound completely ridiculous. “Well, they…um, relate,” she said rather lamely. Where was Sebastian when she needed him? On second thought, considering Cyril’s beach-boy hair and blue eyes, Sebastian would not make this situation any easier.

  “Ms. Singer, I—”

  “Do you believe in legends, Dr. Haw
trey?” Lily asked, cutting him off. For some reason she couldn’t bring herself to use his first name, already aware of how silly her objective might sound to a learned scholar. It was rude, she knew, but she needed that distance, that professionalism, to deal with this man.

  “Please, call me Cyril, and, yes, I suppose I do to some extent,” he said slowly, brows furrowed, no doubt at her odd behavior. “Every historian knows there is a certain amount of truth to every legend, either in reality or in the collective psyche of the culture it came from. Myths were often created to explain natural phenomena that the ancients did not understand, such as lightning, earthquakes, shooting stars, and the like. Why do you ask?”

  “Well…” Lily paused again. It was ludicrous how difficult it was to discuss the idea of Morgan le Fay with a wizard for goodness’ sake. Wizards knew there was more out there than met the eye. Yet she was terrified Cyril wouldn’t believe her. He seemed terribly modern and un-wizard-like to her. “Do you believe King Arthur, Merlin, Morgan le Fay and the rest were real people? Real wizards I mean? Well, not King Arthur, but the other two.”

  Cyril thought about that. “Research possibly points to historical figures from which the legends of King Arthur and Merlin might stem, though the evidence for Morgan le Fay is more sparse. Do I believe it all happened like the legends say? Of course not. Modern stories are based largely on romanticized prose written in the fifteenth century which was only loosely based on a falsely purported “history” written three hundred years after the supposed life of King Arthur.”

  “Yes, we can agree on that,” Lily said. “But do you believe there was an actual wizard named Morgan le Fay? Do you believe there was a place named Avalon? A magical place, I mean, not the Canary Islands.”

  Now Cyril was giving her a funny look, halfway between hope and disbelief. “I can’t really say. It’s not impossible, as we both know, but it seems far-fetched. We have no proof, and as a historian I try to stick to the facts.” That last part he said almost as a question, as if hoping Lily would contradict him.