A gloomy thought struck Lambert. “Won’t they take a motor car on the ferry? Even as freight?”
“I don’t care if they take motor cars or not. I’m not crossing the Severn on a ferry.”
“What’s the matter with the ferry?”
“Nothing’s the matter with it.” Jane put the Minotaur back into gear and began to drive again. From the way she craned her neck, it was clear she was looking for a spot to turn the motor car around. “Nothing is the matter with the Channel ferry, but every time I use it, I feel sick for three days. I’m not going on any ferry if I can avoid it. And in this case, I can avoid it. We’re driving upstream until we find a bridge.”
“Is this something to do with that theory about crossing water?” Lambert asked.
“In my experience, it isn’t a theory.” Jane’s tone was crisp.
“Ah. In that case.” Lambert studied the map. “Watch out for signs to Alveston. We’ll head in the general direction of Gloucester. Looks like we won’t be able to cross the river until we get to the bridge at Over.”
“Over it is,” said Jane, and drove on.
It wasn’t as easy to pick up the road to Gloucester as the map made it look. At times the hedgerows on either side brushed against the Minotaur as Jane negotiated the tight space, wincing and muttering over the probable damage to the motor car’s paint. At times, their road met what looked like the road they wanted, but after a hundred dwindling yards, it became clear Lambert had directed them down some farm track.
Lambert kept the Severn on his left. Eventually, they found a road of respectable size that seemed to be going their way. By the time they crossed the bridge at Over, it was past two in the afternoon. “Only fifteen miles to Ross-on-Wye.” Lambert held out the map to Jane. “If you’re tired of driving, we could probably find a place to stop for the night there.”
“It will be light for hours and hours.” Jane ignored the map. “Why would we stop for the night?”
Lambert winced. The beer in Bristol had been a bad idea. Drinking it had helped to pass the time until the Minotaur was ready, but it had given him a headache. Even if it hadn’t, Lambert had already had enough of wind in his face and dust in his eyes and mouth for one day. Possibly for a month. “Sorry. I thought you might be tired by the time we get there, that’s all.”
“We aren’t stopping for the night.” After almost perfect silence for more than an hour, Jane was as forceful as if they’d been having an argument for miles. “There’s no need. We have acetylene lamps. There’s even a smaller one to illuminate the back number plate. We would be perfectly safe and perfectly legal even if we drove the night through. We aren’t stopping.”
Jane’s words were so clipped, Lambert wondered if she had a headache too. He considered and discarded several responses, finally settling for mildness. “Not even when we get there?”
“We should be there by now.” Jane braked to avoid an ewe that had wandered out into the road ahead.
“We should,” Lambert conceded. Discarding mildness, he yielded to temptation, and added, “If you had bothered to mention that you don’t believe in ferries, or if you’d spent less time packing a picnic and more time planning a sensible route, we probably would be there.”
“If you could read a map properly, we wouldn’t have taken an hour to find our way out of Bristol,” Jane said.
Lambert stared at her. “I can’t believe you plan to drive all afternoon without stopping. Won’t you miss a meal?”
Jane bristled at his tone. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“For one thing, if the sandwiches go off, it will be a sad waste of that picnic basket you brought along, won’t it? Or are there any sandwiches? Is the whole cargo taken up with your silver tea set?”
“I did pack a tea basket,” said Jane levelly. “No point in bringing a lunch basket without a tea basket. You needn’t have any tea if you don’t care to. You needn’t have anything.”
Recklessly, Lambert continued. “What else do you have stowed back there? What is all that luggage? Hats?”
Jane looked peeved but said nothing. Evidently she had decided to ignore her traveling companion and concentrate on the driving.
The silence between them might have held indefinitely. Instead, somewhere between two and three o’clock, a wasp misjudged its death flight toward the windscreen of the Minotaur, caught the slipstream into the left side of the front seat, and stung Lambert on the eyebrow. For an instant, Lambert had the wild thought that he’d been struck with a hot poker. He swatted at his forehead instinctively, but the insect was already gone, leaving only a painful welt to mark its passage. Lambert swore.
“What is it?” Jane drew the motor car to a halt by the side of the road. They were alone in a country lane, near the bend of a pretty little river. Lambert didn’t know which river it was, nor did he care, as long as it wasn’t the Severn.
“Nothing. Something stung me, that’s all.” Lambert wanted to swear, but he took what comfort he could in preserving a stoic facade. With every pulse the sting hurt more, and he could feel it swelling. He wondered if it would end by obscuring his vision.
“Let me look.” Once she’d pulled the Minotaur over and set the brake, Jane held Lambert’s chin in one gloved hand, tilting his head ruthlessly this way and that as she inspected the injury. “That needs seeing to.”
Jane found a spot at the edge of the road with enough grassy verge to park the vehicle safely. The little knoll sloped away gently toward the running water. Only the fresh droppings left behind by sheep grazing in the area posed any challenge to a picnicker.
Jane untied the canvas shroud over the backseat, removed the wicker tea basket, and unbuckled its lid. “I’ll get some cold water for a compress. Just sit tight for a moment, will you?”
“Something stung me, that’s all,” said Lambert. “I’m not crippled or anything.”
“Be quiet. Arguing with a ministering angel never got anyone anywhere he wanted to go,” Jane said.
“Oh, is that what you are?” Lambert spent the time it took for Jane to clamber down to the stream and back in trying to envision Jane as either a literal angel or as the late Miss Florence Nightingale. He failed miserably at both.
On her return, Jane soaked one of the linen napkins from the picnic basket in cool water and gave it to Lambert to apply to his injury. With many a flinch and wince, Lambert put the cold compress in place. While he waited to see if it helped, he watched Jane out of his good eye as she unpacked the tea basket. Since he had a hand to spare from his compress, Lambert, noble in his suffering, helped her unfold and spread the thick woolen blanket. They were careful to avoid sheep droppings.
Mercifully, the weather was fine and showed no sign of change to come. The clouds overhead were the puffy white stuff of daydreams. Borne on a brisk west wind, they changed from shape to shape as Lambert lay on the blanket and gazed tranquilly upward. “Look, that one has Porteous’s nose.”
“ash, don’t. You’ll spoil my appetite.” Jane had removed her goggles, her gloves, and most improperly, her hat and veil. Bareheaded as a schoolgirl, she seemed younger than ever as she set to work, apparently intent on proving that a watched pot boils no later than any other kind.
Lambert found it pleasant to rest on the blanket, free of the roar of the motor car. With only the occasional distant bleat of a sheep to punctuate the steady rush of the river, it was a tranquil spot. No other traffic came from either direction, horse-drawn or motorized. The astringent scent of the spirit lamp burning under the tea kettle mingled with the smell of bruised grass under the picnic blanket. It was perfect—except for the relentless throb of his eyebrow. After thinking it over for a while, Lambert asked, “Is this all the ministering I get?”
Warily, Jane looked up. “Why, what were you expecting?”
“You had magic to spare when it came to dealing with our friend in the bowler hat. Couldn’t you use a little on me? Get rid of the sting altogether?”
Jane r
eturned her attention to the ritual of brewing up. “Sorry. Not my sort of magic. I doubt it would help. It would probably just make things worse.”
With Jane in a more friendly mood behind her tea basket frontier, Lambert concentrated on distracting himself from the discomfort of the wasp sting. The sandwiches were excellent, the eventual tea strong and sweet, and when Jane produced thick slices of stem ginger cake, sticky and dark as molasses, Lambert decided he forgave her. Her tea might have none of the subtlety of Amy’s fragile Chinese potions, but it was strong enough to trot a mouse on, and it cured his headache completely.
“You planned this well,” Lambert said thickly. The stem ginger cake made clear diction an unnecessary luxury.
Jane accepted the olive branch and offered one in return. “I’m glad you’re feeling better. Your eyebrow has swollen beautifully. You look as if you’ve been in a prizefight.”
“Thank you.” Lambert devoted himself to brushing cake crumbs off his waistcoat. That led to brushing crumbs off the blanket. At last, exhausted by these labors, Lambert lay down again. He gazed up at the clouds drifting overhead.
“It’s nice here.” Jane sounded a little sleepy.
Flat on his back, full of tea and cake, Lambert made an inarticulate sound of agreement as he arranged his hat so that the brim shaded his eyes without interfering with his wasp sting.
“You’re not asleep, are you?” Jane’s voice was dark with suspicion.
“With this sting? Certainly not.” To prove it, Lambert took his hat off and propped himself up on an elbow to peer at Jane. “Are you?”
“Not yet. I suppose we should be going soon.” Jane looked regretful.
“Of course. Quite right.” Lambert subsided again and put his hat back over his face. “Immediately.” After a long pause, he added, “It is nice here. Pretty.”
“It wouldn’t hurt to spend a little time studying the maps, I suppose.” Jane brought out the map case and before long the picnic things were out of sight under layers of unfolded paper. Much rustling ensued.
Struck by a sudden suspicion, Lambert put his hat aside, propped himself up again, and asked, “You’re not really using that ivory thing to choose the route, are you?”
The Bartholomew’s map was obscured by the more specialized maps. The spindle dangled from Jane’s hand, swinging in a tidy arc. She looked embarrassed. “I thought it couldn’t hurt to check. If we had to choose an alternate route for some reason, it might be helpful to know how the spindle behaved.”
“I am not letting a child’s toy decide my route for me.”
Jane’s voice frosted. “You being the final arbiter of all things, of course.” She put the spindle down and rubbed her fingers briskly.
“Don’t be silly. That’s not what I meant at all. But at least flip a coin or something.” All tranquility gone, Lambert sat up straight. That made his wasp sting throb viciously, so he resumed his earlier treatment, dabbing gingerly at the spot with the linen compress.
Jane did not seem mollified. “Oh, it’s silly to take something domestic seriously, is it?”
Lambert didn’t try to conceal his impatience. “Look, it’s not just domestic, is it? It’s Amy’s. Amy is a wonder and a marvel, but she reads tea leaves. She read my fortune in the lumps on my head, for pity’s sake.”
“I thought so.” Jane’s delight was obvious. “What revelations did she bring forth? Did Amy predict you would live a long life and achieve great fame?”
“Do I detect the note of a fellow sufferer?” Lambert asked. “No fame for me. So much for my career in show business. No, I’m going to take a long journey over water, marry well, and have a tidy crop of children. She must have mixed the pair of us up.”
“Really?” Jane’s eyes blazed with glee as she reached out to him. “Let me check and see.”
“Hey, wait a minute.” Lambert parried her halfhearted effort to feel his scalp, fended her off successfully, and put her firmly back on her side of the great wall of tea things. “That’s personal, a man’s scalp is. Private and personal. Otherwise, there would be no need to wear a hat.”
Jane sobered. “Has she ever read the irises of your eyes? Long appraising glances, with much scolding if you dare blink?”
“It seems I’ve been spared something, thank God.” Lambert gazed at Jane. “Why? What did she tell you about your eyes? That they’re gray?”
Jane nodded. “Gray and remarkably fine. Don’t forget that. No, Amy is an authority on using the irises of your eyes to evaluate your health. She diagnosed me immediately. I’m addicted to stem ginger cake and three-volume novels.”
“And are you?”
“Oh, utterly. I’m surprised she refrained from examining you. Your superb vision must have intrigued her.”
“At the moment, Amy would have her work cut out for her getting this eye open far enough to peer into.” Lambert refolded the compress and placed a cooler side on his abused eyebrow.
For the first time, Jane looked and sounded truly sympathetic. “It must hurt.”
“Like the devil,” Lambert agreed. He was too tired and cross to attempt polite dishonesty.
“Good for you,” said Jane. “I deplore a Spartan.”
“Thanks.”
“No, I’m complimenting you. I’ve always wondered about that Spartan boy who let the fox gnaw his vitals. How could you ever trust someone like that?”
“Well, if straightforward moaning is anything to go by, I’m the most trustworthy person you ever met.” Lambert thought it over. “If you deplore a Spartan, why were you such a stoic yesterday when we brought you back from the police station?”
Jane made a vague gesture of dismissal. “Fussing.”
“You’re against it?” Lambert ventured.
“That’s right.” Jane relented. “Though I must admit you didn’t fuss a bit. You were very helpful. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Next time, allow me to recommend a bit of straightforward moaning. It can be very refreshing.”
“I knew you must be a terribly straightforward person,” said Jane. “It’s always nice to have one’s snap judgments confirmed. First impressions are so often the most accurate.”
“So they are,” Lambert agreed. “The moment I met you, I thought, now, here is a good eater.”
“Oh, very droll.” Jane’s rendition of Porteous was dead on. “Very droll, dear fellow.”
“Not bad,” said Lambert. “I did notice your remarkably fine eyes, of course. I noticed them immediately. But I have to admit I also noticed you are a young woman who appreciates her food.”
“Since you remind me, I don’t mind if I do.” Jane wrapped up and stored away the remaining slices of stem ginger cake, then helped herself to the last sandwich as she set to work putting everything back in the baskets. Lambert handed her things and Jane packed them away neatly. “So much for your career in show business, you said. What will you do now that the Agincourt Project is over? Go back to the Wild West Show? Or go home to Wyoming?”
“I haven’t had a chance to make up my mind,” Lambert answered. “I’m not absolutely sure Kiowa Bob would take me on again, but I know I don’t want to go back home to Wyoming.”
“Not take you on again? With your eye? He’d be a fool not to,” said Jane indignantly. “There can’t be many people who can shoot the way you do.”
“There’s more to sharpshooting than marksmanship,” Lambert replied. “There’s showmanship. Making easy things look hard.”
“What could possibly be easy about it?”
“Shooting glass balls with buckshot, for one thing,” Lambert answered. “You can make it look harder by taking your shot from the saddle at a full gallop. But you only have to nick a glass ball to shatter it. It looks fine, but it is relatively easy.”
“For you, perhaps.”
“I’ve always been best at the distance shooting, standing on solid ground. Very boring for an audience, that kind of thing. Made it tricky to get the right sort of act goin
g. I started out with pure shooting, and I was good enough that Kiowa Bob signed me. But he made me work up a different gag.”
“What’s a gag?”
“Oh, just a fresh angle on the basic act. The first shows I did, we were out West, touring our way to the East Coast by stages. Nothing funnier to that kind of audience than the greenhorn out to show off, so Kiowa Bob had me dress up like a city slicker.” Lambert smiled at the memory. “We worked up a challenge—a volunteer from the audience could try his hand at target shooting—but the only volunteer Kiowa Bob ever picked out of the audience was me. I had a big pair of round spectacles with plain glass in them, so it looked like I was blind as a bat, but I could still see to shoot. I parted my hair in the middle and stuck it down with pomade, then put on a derby hat about a half size too small, so it fell off all the time. I had a cheap suit with the trousers and the sleeves cut just too short. Oh, I made a beautiful picture.”
“But you hit the target?” Jane asked.
“I hit lots of things. Some of it was rigged—I fired blanks and the boys pulled trip wires to get chicken crates to fly open, or hats to fly off. I would act scared and try to throw the pistol down on the ground, then pretend it was stuck to my hand and I couldn’t stop firing it. Finally, Kiowa Bob would calm me down and point me at the target and we’d have a shooting contest.”
“And you won.”
“Not always. It depended on the audience. The farther east we went, the less people laughed at city slickers, so I finally had to give up playing the greenhorn. That’s when I put on the full bib and tucker—Stetson hat and leather chaps and a Colt Peacemaker strapped on my hip. It’s not the way I dressed at home, believe me.”
Jane blinked. “Isn’t it? I thought all cowboys dressed that way?”
“But I wasn’t a cowboy. I taught school.”
Jane gave a crack of laughter. “You are a schoolteacher too?”
“That’s right. Gave me kind of a turn when Amy told me that’s what you do.”
“Where do you teach?”
A Scholar of Magics Page 20
