The Mislaid Magician

by Patricia C. Wrede

  Oh, dear. Inspired by recent events, Diana has been moved to compose her first couplet. She proclaimed it proudly just now over her cup of warm milk: Drina tells God / Arthur smells odd. Diana appears to view this as an adequate substitute for a bedtime prayer. Fortunately, I can leave it to Nurse to disabuse her of this notion.

  I should seal this letter and give it to Thomas to enchant for me. Nothing else worthy of putting in a letter, even a letter as inconsequential as this one, has happened. (Arthur gave Edward a bump on the forehead with a battledore when they were playing shuttlecock this morning, but there was nothing premeditated about it.) Nothing seems likely to happen, either. At last we are enduring a break in our run of fine weather, the sort of day that we ought to have had back in March. It is raining in a sullen way, not hard but not stopping, either, which matches my mood perfectly. What a good thing this ugly streak of weather held off until now. Had it arrived during the races at Cheltenham, it would have ruined the gaiety. The king himself was in evidence. His horse did not distinguish itself, but His Majesty does not seem to have permitted that to interfere with his usual amusements.

  Yes, it’s come to this. I have been reading the newspapers, and not just for titbits concerning the mysterious poetess. I have been reading them because there’s nothing else to do here. Nothing that I can accomplish with the moments snatched from the demands of “Only look, Mama!” that is.

  If nothing else, such titbits of gossip are useful when I am taking tea with the Cramptons. They were in Cheltenham, ostensibly for the races, but in fact to get a look at the king. Their reward was also their punishment, for in addition to His Majesty, they also saw his brother and heir, William, Duke of Clarence. The Duchess of Kent was expected to be there, as well, the better for her daughter Alexandria to become better acquainted with her royal uncles. Unfortunately the duchess could not attend, for her daughter caught a streaming cold a few days before the event.

  The Cramptons were voluble in their praise of the consequence and dignity of the king and his brother. I think that the presence of a young girl with sniffles would have lowered the tone of the occasion considerably, but the Cramptons seem disappointed to have missed a sight of her all the same.

  7 May

  I take back every word. To think he was laying his plans even as I wrote that last page by the light of the nursery candles. I could scream.

  This morning, for the first time in weeks, I was not awakened at dawn by Thomas and the necessity to ride the bounds before we indulge in so much as a cup of tea. Indeed, this morning I woke of my own volition to find the sun well up and the household abustle.

  Puzzled and not a little alarmed by this change in routine, I woke Thomas. This took some doing, I can tell you, and when I finally succeeded in bringing him to a sense of where he was and who I am, he buried his face in the pillow with such a groan that I contemplated sending for a physician.

  Thomas emerged before I could take serious fright. “Forgive me, Kate,” he said, words I have never yet learned to hear with any degree of equanimity. Only think of the things Thomas wouldn’t dream of asking my forgiveness for.

  I am asked to forgive him for being a half-wit, it turns out. To spare himself the inconvenience of my company last night, Thomas went out alone to watch for an intruder the gamekeeper alerted him to. (To do him credit, it has not even crossed Thomas’s mind to use the foul weather as an excuse for leaving me behind.) As he was alone, Thomas was quite unable to stop the intruder, who made a neat escape while Thomas was casting some sort of spell on the man’s garters. I may have that detail wrong. I freely confess I had given up listening closely by the time Thomas’s narrative had proceeded so far. Fury distracts me.

  I held my tongue, over all but the absolute essentials, through the entire ride of the boundary. (Thomas assured me that his spell would lose little efficacy through his tardiness, though like most magic, it seems to work better the more discomfort the maker of magic endures.) By the time we were back in the stable yard, I was able to view the situation with a degree of detachment. Not a great deal. Enough to keep from giving Thomas a piece of my mind in front of the servants. But only just.

  Were Thomas not possessed by a devil of self-indulgence, we might have captured the intruder and be possessed of fresh knowledge at this moment! I could tear my hair.

  To ease my mind, I have taken up my customary post at the nursery worktable. This is viewed with tolerance by Edward, Diana, and Drina. Arthur, I fear, finds my presence a dampening effect on some scheme of his. (Need I say this only makes me the more determined to stay right where I am?)

  Yours,

  Kate

  9 May 1828

  Skeynes

  (Enchanted by T. Schofield)

  Dear Cecy,

  I have your letter of 7 May in hand and will make up for the undisciplined nature of my last letter with the brevity of this one.

  Thank you for explaining matters to Aunt Elizabeth. I value your opinion of Georgy’s exploit. Even Thomas does not appreciate the true enormity of her behavior. He will when Aunt Charlotte stirs herself to come lecture Georgy in person.

  Thomas is beside himself with curiosity. If it were not for his recent exploit, I’m certain he would be thinking of excellent reasons to visit London, the better to conduct some research into the historical Mr. Morris’s doings himself.

  I could almost envy your sedate carriage rides. If only they weren’t to view the torrents of magic that run through ley lines. Do be careful. Aunt Elizabeth isn’t always overcautious, you know.

  Yours,

  Kate

  (Message received in inkwell, 10 May 1828)

  GO AND FETCH AUNT KATE RIGHT NOW.

  K: Keep T. away from the stone circles. They are a trap for wizards. Letter follows with details. C.

  10 May 1828

  Wardhill Cottage

  Dearest Kate,

  I trust you received my message in a timely manner. I held the scrying spell long enough to watch Arthur write it out and run off in a tearing hurry, and he is usually quite reliable when it comes to really important things, but I shall not be quite easy in my mind until I hear from you. We are all well, thanks to James’s quick action, though it was a near thing.

  The stone circles are, as I said, a trap for wizards and magicians—that is how poor Herr Schellen came to be a sheepdog. And when James told me at breakfast that he and Mr. Wrexton had asked Thomas to investigate any circles near Skeynes, and that the ley spells (including the trap) might well extend to any similar junctions linked to this one, I simply had to warn you as soon as I could. Of course we cannot be certain yet that the spell net extends so far as Gloucestershire, but I thought it best to be safe. Now, when you receive James’s letter, you will know enough to keep Thomas away long enough for this explanation to arrive.

  Forgive me; I am still a little overset by everything that has happened. I am sure it will make far more sense if I tell it in order.

  Our investigation of Mr. Morris’s ley map did not begin well. We had chosen a spot some miles north of Darlington and the railway line, as we did not wish to attract the attention of whoever seems to have been tampering with the leys. The Wrextons and I rode out on Thursday, but we were unable to examine the junction as closely as we had wished. The landowner had fenced the entire area most thoroughly, and we could not come any nearer than the roadway. However, that was near enough to see that, just as at Haliwar Tower and Goosepool, there was a tumble of ancient stones on the spot where, according to the map, the ley lines converged.

  And I will confess, in your ear, Kate, that I am rapidly becoming heartily sick of maps. We spent the early part of yesterday shuffling various large and awkward sheets of paper from one side of the worktable to the other in pursuit of stone circles and possible ley line linkages. Aunt Elizabeth had to forcibly dissuade Mr. Wrexton from sending an express letter to London at once for more maps—maps of ley lines in other parts of the country, maps of ancient building sites
and known magical locations, and even maps of ley lines in other countries!

  He was persuaded at last when James mentioned that he, James, has sent for an expert on ley lines, a Mr. Skelly, who should arrive within a few weeks at most. (You remember that nice boy Theodore Daventer, whom we met on our wedding journey? He had a hand in arranging the matter.)

  Aunt Elizabeth was initially inclined to take umbrage at James’s action, which she saw as a slur on her husband’s abilities, but when she saw that Mr. Wrexton was pleased by James’s foresight and quite looking forward to having a knowledgeable person with whom to exchange speculations, she accepted the matter with tolerable equanimity.

  This left us with the question of where to look while we await Mr. Skelly’s arrival. We selected the Dancing Weans at Goosepool, that being closer and less likely to be under observation than Haliwar Tower. As the hour was still early and the day fine, we determined to set out at once—the four of us and the sheepdog. (James chose to accompany us, on the grounds of being unable to further his own investigations until some meeting he has arranged for on Monday.) I was not altogether certain about the advisability of bringing the sheepdog, as he had prevented me from entering the circle before; however, I did not think he would be able to stop all of us at once.

  When we arrived at the farm outside Goosepool, we had to leave the carriage and climb a stile into the field, then walk to the little hill where the stone circle was located. Fortunately, the farmer and his sheep had moved on, though they had left many traces behind, as sheep do.

  We cast the ley line detection spells and set off. As we picked our way across the close-cropped grass, the sheepdog became more and more agitated, running around us and plainly trying to herd us away from our course as if we were so many sheep.

  Finally, Mr. Wrexton paused and looked sternly at it. “Herr Schellen,” he said, “I can see that you are disturbed and I can understand your reluctance to revisit a place that must of necessity bring back unpleasant memories. However, if we are to remove the enchantment that affects you, we must examine these unusual ley configurations.”

  The sheepdog paused (standing between us and the stone circle) and whined.

  Suddenly, I remembered something. “Mr. Wrexton! Didn’t you and Aunt Elizabeth say that the transformation spell is tied to more than one ley line? And three of them come together at that stone circle. Is there some test we could do to see if these are the leys that are affecting Herr Schellen? Because if they are—”

  “Then more may be ailing our friend here than bad memories,” James finished. “What about it, Wrexton?”

  Mr. Wrexton looked thoughtful for a moment. “Yes, I believe that would be possible. Elizabeth, did you bring any comfrey?”

  Aunt Elizabeth dug in her reticule. “Yes, I have it. You’re thinking of the Foxcroft inversion?”

  Mr. Wrexton nodded. “It will be simpler if we test each ley line individually,” he murmured half to himself. Aunt Elizabeth handed him the comfrey. He frowned at it and said, “Yes, if we make a circle outside the stones … Cecy, wipe this on your palms. Now, all we need is—” He looked around and found the sheepdog, watching us alertly. At least, its bearing was alert; it is rather difficult to tell more than that with sheepdogs. “Herr Schellen, if you please?”

  The sheepdog cocked its head, then rose and walked over. Mr. Wrexton held out the comfrey. The dog sniffed it. Slowly, it nodded. Mr. Wrexton rubbed the comfrey over the dog’s paws and on the back of its head, muttering in Latin the whole time.

  We began tramping in a wide circle around the hill. We had gone no more than two yards when we sensed the first of the three ley lines. It was, as the official maps indicated, a small one. Mr. Wrexton had the three of us—Aunt Elizabeth, me, and himself—link hands, while the sheepdog sat inside our small ring. Mr. Wrexton and Aunt Elizabeth chanted. My studies have been worth this much; I was able to understand a good deal of what they were saying, and it was plain that the invocation they were using required the participation of three persons. Nonetheless, I felt very nearly useless.

  I did not have long to mull over these sad thoughts, for Mr. Wrexton and Aunt Elizabeth finished abruptly. The sheepdog barked once, deep and short, and began to glow.

  “I take that as a positive indication,” James said.

  “Yes,” Mr. Wrexton said with satisfaction. “You were quite right. That’s definitely one of the lines that’s supporting the transformation spell.” He waved a hand and the glow ceased. “Two to go.”

  The sheepdog had the same reaction to the second ley line. When we reached the third, however, Mr. Wrexton frowned. “This cannot be right,” he muttered, and pulled out the official ley map. “It’s in the right place,” he said after a moment, “but it’s much stronger than it should be.”

  Aunt Elizabeth looked over his shoulder. “The flow indicators are all wrong,” she said.

  The sheepdog barked once, as if it agreed, then growled.

  “What does Mr. Morris’s map show?” I asked.

  Mr. Wrexton put the official map away and took out the older version. “Hmm. You may have hit on something, Cecelia. He’s marked this one twice as heavily as the other two—though that’s still not as strong as it should be.”

  “But if he was mapping ley lines according to their importance, the thickness of the line wouldn’t have anything to do with how strong it really is,” I pointed out.

  “Very true. That doesn’t explain why the official maps are off,” Mr. Wrexton said.

  “It is puzzling, to be sure, but the strength of the ley line shouldn’t affect the Foxcroft inversion,” Aunt Elizabeth said. “Let us finish one set of tests before we commence another.”

  As we formed our little circle around the growling sheepdog, I heard a distant whistle and a rumbling noise. The rumbling grew steadily louder as Aunt Elizabeth and Mr. Wrexton chanted (to no one’s particular surprise, the sheepdog glowed just as brightly as it had for the first two). “What is that noise?” Mr. Wrexton said.

  “The steam train,” James said. “It should be here in another minute or two.”

  “Perhaps we should move a little,” I said. “The last time the train came by when I was sensing ley spells, it shifted the ley line, and I don’t think I want to be standing right on top of one if it happens again.”

  “An excellent notion,” Mr. Wrexton said, and we all moved away from the ley line. The steam engine pounded past, trailing a dozen coal wagons and a plume of damp smoke like Mrs. Gordon’s prized ostrich feathers. And as it reached the ley line, we all felt the ley catch and begin to stretch.

  “My word!” Mr. Wrexton said, and started forward. Just then, the engine surged forward and the ley line snapped back into place, vibrating like a bowstring that has just been released, or like one of the wires in Georgy’s pianoforte when it has just been struck. Mr. Wrexton, Aunt Elizabeth, and I all jumped, and Mr. Wrexton lost his footing and sat down unexpectedly in the damp grass.

  “My word,” he said again. “Cecy, I had no idea.” He scrambled to his feet and in three strides was back at the ley line, muttering softly. After a moment, he looked back, his expression one of keen interest. “I cannot be certain without the proper measuring tools,” he said, “but I believe this ley is very slightly stronger now than it was a moment ago. We must come back later and measure it properly.”

  “The train makes ley lines stronger?” James said.

  “I would not go so far as that,” Mr. Wrexton said. “It has certainly affected this ley line, and the unusual interaction seems the likeliest explanation for the difference between what we sense and what the official maps show. We must find some other leys that cross the railway line and see whether they show the same sort of influence.”

  “Not today,” Aunt Elizabeth said firmly. “We came to examine this junction”—she waved at the stone circle— “and we had better do so.”

  The sheepdog growled loudly. Mr. Wrexton looked from it to Aunt Elizabeth. “That is an exce
llent notion, my dear,” he said after a moment. “However, given the reaction of our friend and the undeniable fact that all three of the ley lines involved are tied to the transformation spell that affects him, I think a few additional precautions are in order.”

  The precaution Mr. Wrexton had in mind, it turned out, was chiefly that he should enter the stone circle alone, while Aunt Elizabeth and I remained outside. James heartily endorsed this proposal, of course, but he was sensible enough to point out that it provided no particular safeguard for Mr. Wrexton.

  So we spent the next half hour casting every ward and protective spell we could think of on Mr. Wrexton, even the ones that are seldom used because they last so short a time. “That will do,” he said at last. “Any more, and I’ll have so many enchantments interfering with my magic sense that I won’t be able to feel anything more than James here.”

  Aunt Elizabeth frowned slightly but nodded. We all walked nearly to the edge of the circle. The sheepdog was still growling softly, so James took hold of it. Then Mr. Wrexton went on into the circle, and a great many things happened very rapidly.

  There was, I thought, a flash of light as he crossed the ring of stones. Aunt Elizabeth agrees with me, but James says he did not see anything, so it may well have been some unexpected effect of the ley line detecting spells that let us see what James could not. At the same time, there was a surge of magical energy inside the stone circle. The sheepdog howled and leapt toward the circle, dragging James with it. And Mr. Wrexton gave an exclamation and began to twist horribly.

  Aunt Elizabeth cried out and tried to reach her husband. I grabbed her arm and pulled her back. James let go of the sheepdog and dove forward, knocking Mr. Wrexton out of the circle and himself further in.