Voysey leaned forward in his chair. “We’re just beginning to learn the best ways to use the scientific method to explore the world. Someday we’ll know all there is to know about everything. Until then, there is a certain discipline called, for want of a better word, magic.” Voysey’s expression invited Lambert to smile at the use of such an old-fashioned term.
“All right.” Lambert thought it over. “Where are the wizards?”
Voysey laughed aloud. It made a world of difference to his long face. “That’s an antiquated term. As well go into a room full of chemists and ask where the alchemists are. But for lack of a better answer, here I am.”
“You’re a wizard?” Lambert had expected Voysey to be a bit less matter-of-fact about it.
“I study the discipline we haven’t yet found a modern term for, yes.” Voysey scrutinized Lambert as if gauging how much listening he could do at a sitting. “I began my studies here as an undergraduate of St. Joseph’s. My work found favor with the Vice Chancellor and Senior Fellows of the day and upon my graduation, I was invited to stay on as a Fellow of Holythorn. Since then, I have continued to study as I took on more responsibility and authority. Let me emphasize that word. Study. We all study here, students, faculty, everyone.”
“You mean you study magic.” Lambert returned Voysey’s inspection with his own. “Were you able to do it before you came here or did you have to learn it on the premises?”
“What little I have mastered, I learned here at Glasscastle.” Voysey sounded modest, but under his words ran pure confidence. Lambert judged Voysey was sure that what he called small magic would seem like a great deal to an outsider. He wondered if Voysey ever played poker. If he did, Lambert wondered how well he did at it.
“How did they know you could learn to do magic when they took you on?”
“Oh, they didn’t know. Not with utter certainly.” Voysey’s modesty took a turn toward the smug. “Though I showed as much promise as any arriving student.”
“Does Glasscastle pick students by how much promise they show?” Lambert asked.
“Not entirely. One day there will be a scientific test to determine aptitude. For now, we can’t be absolutely sure of any student’s capacity. We admit or reject a student on the basis of his background and his previous education. He’s given a year of the scholarly regime to demonstrate a capacity for magic. If he does no more than chant for three terms, he has earned his room and board and repaid the efforts of his teacher. But if he does no more than chant, if we detect no aptitude for magic of any kind, he’s dismissed at the end of the third term.”
“That chanting—” Lambert hesitated. He knew he could find words to describe what the chanting had seemed like to him, but he wasn’t sure he could do it without betraying more emotion than was seemly. “Is that magic?”
“You heard the chants?” Voysey seemed pleased. “I thought you were given the standard tour. Did they take you into one of the student chapels too?”
“No, I heard them from the garden. It was—I never heard anything like that before.”
“Once you leave Glasscastle, I don’t suppose you ever will again.” Something in Lambert’s expression seemed to soften Voysey. “I’m glad you appreciated the experience. Chants are a vital part of Glasscastle.”
“Those are just regular students doing it? You don’t pick them for their voices?”
“Lord, no.” Voysey chuckled. “We don’t want opera singers. We look for young men who can work well as part of the whole. The reliable, rather than the exceptional.”
“So—in theory—anyone could spend at least one year here? Once he was admitted?”
“In theory.” Voysey hesitated, then went on with gentle firmness. “Admission depends on more than mere interest. We look at each student’s background and education. There are certain academic requirements, literacy in Latin, for example.”
Voysey’s choice of words brought Lambert up short. “Background? What does that mean?”
Voysey looked uncomfortable. “I think you can deduce that from the students you’ve met. There is a certain, how shall I put it, a certain tone to the Glasscastle man. You’ll learn to recognize it when you’ve spent more time here.”
Lambert thought he guessed what Voysey left unsaid. There was no room at Glasscastle for men who came from the working class, nor from beyond the boundaries of the United Kingdom. “Does Glasscastle admit any foreign students?”
Voysey seemed relieved at the question. “Oh, of course. Within the standards I’ve already described. It’s a curious thing, nationality. I have a theory. One of the traditions folk ignorance has insisted upon down the ages is that witches detest water.”
“I thought the tradition of ducking witches was based on the notion that water detested witches. Witches floated because the water wouldn’t let them sink.” Lambert had read that in one of his mother’s history books, he couldn’t remember which one.
“Quaint, these folktales, aren’t they?” Voysey spread his hands. “Scientifically, we’re investigating a relationship between the practice of magic, possibly even the aptitude for the practice of magic, and the degree of discomfort occasioned when crossing large bodies of water. Our knowledge is limited now, but as the scientific principles are discovered, I believe this is one of those cases where superstition foreshadows fact. One day we’ll be able to show that those hardy souls who colonized the New World were those who survived the ocean voyage—survived when many other travelers sickened and died on the way. It has been established that those, like yourself, who descend from that hardy stock have so little detectable aptitude for magic that we are safe in generalizing that no one from Canada, the United States, or any other part of the New World will show any skill at magic.”
“You really have proof of that?” Lambert thought of some of the things he’d seen traveling with Kiowa Bob’s show, some of the stories the Indians told, and he wondered what Voysey would make of them.
“Not yet,” Voysey replied. “I have every confidence that in a few years, the advances of science will show us the precise wording of the natural law. In the meantime, we simply apply it as a rule of thumb. We didn’t know why the apple fell from the tree until Sir Isaac Newton gave us the calculations. But we did know that the apple would fall.”
“So only those who come from the right side of the ocean have the capacity to learn magic,” said Lambert, “and only those who study at Glasscastle actually do learn magic.”
“Perhaps I’ve oversimplified.” Voysey frowned. “Things are not nearly as clear-cut as that. For one thing, of those who might have the capacity to learn magic, only a few do. For another, there is more than one kind of magic, just as there is more than one place magic is taught. If you were a Frenchwoman, God forbid, you could study magic at Greenlaw. If you believed in the lore of kitchen maids, there is a whole body of knowledge to be gained from study of the way one pares an apple. If you believe in fairy tales, there are the four wardens of the world, who balance and protect all earthly realms by neutralizing our magic with their own. Even if you don’t believe in fairy tales, from time to time, often in the very oldest families, a wild talent occurs.”
“What is a wild talent?” Lambert asked, after a moment of interior confusion involving the parable of the talents.
Voysey’s frown deepened. “Wild talent is the capacity to work magic without any preliminary training. One could hardly conceive of anything more dangerous. Scholars believe the conflagration in Pudding Lane originated when someone with wild talent tried lighting a candle with a fire spell.”
Lambert took that pitch, waiting in silence for Voysey to explain.
“The Great Fire of 1666 originated in Pudding Lane,” the older man said kindly. “Half London burned.”
“Some candle,” said Lambert.
“It was a windy day,” said Voysey. “Fortunately, wild talent is a rare phenomenon. One day our research will tell us why. There will be a reason, one as sensible and solid a
s the reason a few animals are albino. We just don’t understand the scientific principles behind the magic yet. But we will. One day we will.” For a moment, Voysey stared beyond Lambert into the glow of the coal fire. Then, as if with an effort, he brought his attention back to Lambert and rose from his chair. “You will have a long day tomorrow. I’ll leave you to get your rest. But a word of advice is in order. We want you for your skills as a marksman, not your skills as a showman. Save the spurs and chaparejos for Kiowa Bob. Wear something respectable. I think you’ll find it far more comfortable.”
Any chill Lambert had felt was cured by his embarrassment. “I’d worked that out for myself, Vice Chancellor.”
“Good luck tomorrow, Samuel.” Voysey had left Lambert counting the hours until he could get away from Glasscastle.
Remembering that cold night on this hot one, Lambert wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t seen the garden that first day. If he’d never heard the chants from Wearyall, would he still be hanging around Glasscastle? Kiowa Bob’s troupe had gone on with the European tour. Lambert could have been in Italy by now. He might have been to the opera at La Scala. If there was more than one kind of magic in the world, how many kinds of music must there be?
For a time, during those first days at Glasscastle, it had seemed to Lambert as if a door had been opened. He’d been invited into a world where knowledge and mystery were entwined, where music held unsuspected might, where the horizon of the possible was limitless. Lambert knew his welcome in that world was entirely conditional. The door was open for him to contribute his skill. It wasn’t there for him to come and go freely. He would stay by that door, though, as long as he could hear the music from within.
There was indeed a thunderstorm during the night. Next morning, the air was as clear and soft as the bells and birdsong that woke Lambert. He went down to breakfast frowning, for there was still no sign of Fell, nor any message from him.
On his way back from breakfast, Lambert decided to look in again at the Winterset Archive, where Fell conducted his research. Lambert had checked Fell’s study the day before. Not likely that Fell had returned to the study without returning to his rooms first, but it wasn’t out of the question. Fell could be lurking there, so lost in some academic pursuit that the passage of time meant nothing, or he could be hiding out to avoid Vice Chancellor Voysey’s ministers.
If Lambert had been a Fellow of Glasscastle, or if he had been accompanied by one, he would have walked straight across the green and into the archive building. As it was, he had to crunch his way around the green, Holythorn to the gatehouse, the gatehouse to Winterset.
As he passed the great gate, Lambert heard a woman call his name. He turned back to follow the voice, walked through the gatehouse arch, and saw Jane Brailsford. She sat alone on one of the stone benches reserved for visitors who had been refused entry. It was a spartan place for the visitor to wait for Glasscastle to come to them, but it served its purpose of isolating visitors until their escorts came to claim them.
Miss Brailsford seemed as well entertained as if she were in a box at the opera. She was dressed in what Lambert could only assume was the latest Parisian mode, since he’d never seen anything quite as sleek in his life. Her hat alone must have cost a month’s pay. Only high style could get away with doing that to a bird. Her attitude, as she waited, was no different from the ease she’d displayed in her brother’s house. Her enjoyment of the passing scene was clear to see. There was not much in the way of cart traffic in the cobbled street outside, but there were pedestrians and bicyclists in plenty, not to mention the robed Fellows and students who came and went through the arch.
Lambert pulled himself together. “Miss Brailsford. A pleasure. Am I late or are you early?”
“You are blameless, sir. As, in this instance, am I.” Jane smiled up at Lambert. “My brother’s memory is at fault, I fear. He had a committee meeting first thing this morning so he left the house without me. Prodigiously important meeting, I gather. I was to follow at a more civilized hour and he would collect me for my tour. I have followed his instructions to the letter. The committee must have adjourned at least an hour since. Robin promised to meet me here thirty minutes ago. Yet here I languish.”
Lambert had half convinced himself that he’d been imagining the gleam he’d seen in Jane’s eyes, but here it was back again. He was glad to see it. “That’s languishing, is it?” Lambert thought it over. “My experience with this sort of thing is limited. Forgive me if I get it wrong. But you aren’t languishing very hard, are you?”
“I’m just a beginner,” Jane explained. Her deadpan expression was perfect. Lambert promised himself he would never play cards with her.
Lambert consulted his pocket watch. “I don’t think you can blame Brailsford’s memory. Those committee meetings can be the devil. It could still be going on.”
“Truly?” Jane looked chastened. “Poor Robin.”
“Is there something I could do?” Lambert sat down beside her.
“If you aren’t expected elsewhere, I’d appreciate your company. If you are …” Jane trailed off.
A small silence stretched between them. Lambert ended it. He didn’t like to admit how little honest work there was for him to do at Glasscastle, but it was the truth, so why shrink from saying so? “No, no. I’m at your service. I have no tests today. I was at a loose end, I promise. Let me show you some of the sights of Glasscastle. You’ll be doing me a favor.”
“No tests of marksmanship, perhaps,” said Jane. “Research takes many forms.”
Something of Lambert’s wariness must have shown on his face, because Jane seemed to relent. “Forget I said that. Last night Robin told me not to ask you about the project. Don’t worry. I’ll be discreet.”
“I’m not worried about your discretion. Mine might be questioned.”
Jane grimaced. “Dear me. That will never do. I don’t mean to interrogate you. Would you like to interrogate me instead? Just to be perfectly safe?”
Lambert took this in the flirtatious spirit it was obviously intended. “Very much.”
“Oh, good.” Jane settled herself more comfortably. “Do your worst.”
“Yesterday I asked you what subjects you taught. You said Mock Turtle’s arithmetic. I don’t know what that means.”
Jane shook her head slightly. “I was being silly. Amy brings it out in me sometimes. I meant I teach mathematics.”
Lambert tried and failed to conceal his surprise. “You teach mathematics?”
“Why? Don’t I seem scholarly enough?” Jane gazed at him tranquilly and if anything her eyes were wider and more limpid than Lambert remembered them being the day before.
Lambert didn’t let Jane’s innocent look or mild tone deceive him. There were tests and then there were tests. She was a schoolteacher, after all. He chose his words with care. “You don’t seem anywhere near old enough.”
“I am quite old enough.” The innocent look remained, but Jane’s tone had gone tart.
“Are people ever surprised to learn you teach mathematics?” Lambert could guess the answer from her tartness. Jane had held this conversation often enough to be tired of it.
“People are usually surprised that a woman knows even the rudiments of mathematics.” Jane looked as if she would like to say more, but she let it stand at that.
Lambert thought it would be a good idea to get off the topic before her willpower failed. “What other subjects do they teach at your school?”
Jane’s elaborately innocent look was gone. She answered as to an equal. “Greenlaw was founded on classical lines, so both the trivium and quadrivium are offered.”
Lambert knew he was gaping like a fool when Jane added, “Arithmetic, music, geometry, astronomy, grammar, rhetoric, and logic.”
Lambert waved the list away. “Excuse me. I hadn’t realized that you taught at Greenlaw. Your sister-in-law said it was a French school. I’m afraid I didn’t make the connection with Greenlaw. It’s nearly as
famous as Glasscastle as a school of magic.”
“Nearly?” Jane looked amused. “Magic is taught there. Not languishing, honesty compels me to admit. But we do teach magic, along with decorum, which includes how to sit on a stone bench and make it look as if it were a feather cushion. I don’t teach decorum myself. I have studied it.”
“But you’ve studied magic as well.” Lambert didn’t try to keep the respect out of his voice. It was hard enough to conceal the envy. “True magic.”
Jane looked down and Lambert noticed she had gone pink. It was surprisingly becoming. “I only teach mathematics.”
“How long have you been a teacher?”
Jane appeared to give this question careful thought. “Not long.”
“I didn’t think so.” Lambert hesitated, then yielded to temptation. “You aren’t pompous enough yet.”
That brought her attention straight back to him. “You don’t know that. I might be pompous as anything when you get me on mathematics.”
“It isn’t a subject that lends itself to more than one interpretation. Your true pomposity shows itself best where any opinion could be the right one.” Lambert thought of Cromer and Palgrave, and added, “Though somehow, no opinion ever turns out to be.”
Jane said, “That’s all you know. There are many theories of mathematics.”
“How can there be? As long as numbers are numbers, the truth is the same.”
“But are numbers numbers?” Jane countered. “What is truth?”
Lambert held up a hand to stop her. “Don’t get fancy on me now. Two plus two equals four. There’s an eternal verity for you.”
The feathers on Jane’s hat bobbed and danced, such was the enthusiasm with which she took issue with him. “You’re oversimplifying things. Even eternal verities can change sometimes. It depends on how you perceive them.”
“Do you think this particular eternal verity will change?” Lambert gestured at Glasscastle’s great gate. “Outsiders kept away while the scholars of Glasscastle pursue their studies in isolation?”
A Scholar of Magics Page 5
