Frederick picked up the top hat and brushed it off carefully. From his place at the threshold Frederick saw the whole front hall was lined with servants, all standing at attention.
“Welcome to Skeynes, my lady,” Mr. Kimball said, bowing. “Welcome home, my lord.”
Graciously, with a smile and a word for each of them, Lady Schofield greeted her staff, from Mr. Kimball down to the youngest maids. At her heels, Lord Schofield beamed with pride. Piers fell into line with the other servants. Frederick stood between Piers and Bess.
At last the welcome was over. Lady Schofield turned to Lord Schofield. “Are we ready to continue the investigation?”
Despite all the nonsense she had spouted about shrieks and roars, Frederick decided Lady Schofield might be more sensible than Lord Schofield after all.
“Why not?” Lord Schofield was still beaming at her as they climbed the front stair. Servants were supposed to use the back stairs, but Frederick followed them, making it look as much as possible as if he were entrusted with important luggage, even though all he carried was Lord Schofield’s top hat.
Frederick was surprised when, despite the warning they’d been given, Lord and Lady Schofield walked boldly into the dressing room off his lordship’s bedchamber. “The curse!” he reminded them as he followed.
Lord Schofield didn’t glance up from where he was marking a circle on the floor, this time with a bit of chalk from his pocket. “No sign of one yet. No sign of anything.”
“I like this house.” Lady Schofield was smiling as she looked around. “So peaceful.”
Frederick checked the dressing room over as he put the top hat away. No dried peas, nor any other sign of Billy Bly’s visit. No soot in the fireplace. The place was trim and spotless.
Lord Schofield muttered and gestured his way through his spell once more, then sighed, “Safe!” and rubbed the chalk marks out with his pocket handkerchief. “To be perfectly methodical about it, I’ll do a great cleansing ritual, but that can wait for morning.”
“Good.” Lady Schofield took his hands in hers. “We’re both worn out.”
Frederick left the young couple gazing into each other’s eyes. Revolting, the way otherwise sensible people could carry on, he decided. Something to do with being married, no doubt. Perhaps it damaged the brain.
10
IN WHICH FREDERICK SEES MORE THAN HE SHOULD
In the morning, Frederick was relieved to discover Lord Schofield was back in his right mind. The whole time Piers shaved him, he seemed to be thinking deeply. When he was finally dressed, Lord Schofield dismissed Piers and fixed Frederick with a glance. “It is just the two of us here now, so you may speak freely. Don’t be embarrassed that you cried wolf. Everyone makes the occasional mistake. What gave you the idea the curse has returned?”
“It has, my lord.” Frederick felt as if Lord Schofield could see clear through him like a pane of glass.
“I knew the rumors would fly the moment Skeynes was lived in again. I didn’t think you’d be the one to spread them.” Lord Schofield turned away from Frederick and adjusted his cravat in the looking glass.
Frederick knew he should make some excuse to leave his employer’s presence, but he couldn’t stop himself from speaking. “Can’t you believe me?”
Lord Schofield moved so he was watching Frederick in the mirror. “Tell me why I should. Who told you the curse was back?”
Frederick wished to answer honestly, yet he could not bring himself to betray the presence of Billy Bly. Even if he told Lord Schofield straight out, there was the chance the wizard would refuse to believe him. The silence stretched until Lord Schofield broke it.
“You won’t give me your gossip’s name. I admire your determination to keep them from my wrath. I won’t have Lady Schofield troubled by these rumors, understand?”
Frederick nodded.
“Very well.” Lord Schofield looked thoughtful. “Time for the cleansing spell, I think. Bring me a broom, a pint of ale, a pint of water you’ve drawn from the well yourself, a pound of salt, a lot of rosemary, and a handful of feathers, any sort, so long as they are clean.”
It took the best part of an hour for Frederick to fetch everything. Then, despite the fine weather, Lord Schofield ordered Frederick to kindle a fire in the dressing room hearth. The flue drew properly, smoke rising just as it should, without drifting back into the dressing room.
“That’s interesting,” Lord Schofield said, peering into the depths of the fireplace to watch the smoke going up.
While Frederick had been carrying out all his instructions, Lord Schofield had assembled his magical implements. There was now an embroidered cloth on the shaving stand where the set of razors was normally kept. On the cloth lay an array of objects, some as familiar as a battered-looking kitchen knife, some too strange for Frederick to put names to.
Lord Schofield tossed a pinch of salt on the flames. “Hand me the broom. Now, stand in the doorway and don’t let anyone else in, no matter what.”
“Not even Lady Schofield?” Frederick took up the position Lord Schofield indicated.
“At this hour? She will still be sleeping. But no, just this once, not even Kate. Now be quiet.”
Slowly, far more slowly and far less thoroughly than Frederick would have done it, Lord Schofield swept the entire dressing room. With every stroke of the broom, he muttered to himself. The sweepings, what few there were, went on the fire. Then out came the chalk again. This time it was not a circle Lord Schofield drew on the floor, but a triangle. He made marks around the outside of the triangle, but if they were words, they were written in no alphabet Frederick had ever seen before.
The salt, Lord Schofield sprinkled in a ring around the triangle. The rosemary and the feathers were distributed at irregular intervals within the ring. Lord Schofield put a crystal dish in the center of the triangle and poured in as much well water as it would hold. All the while, his muttering went on, a soft chant Frederick did not understand, even though it sounded half familiar.
At first, Frederick worried that Lord Schofield would catch some hint that Billy Bly was in the house. But soon that concern faded. The fire on the hearth made the room seem uncomfortably warm.
Frederick yawned. Even though he and Lord Schofield were the only ones in it, the room felt crowded. Frederick yawned a second time. Trying to wake himself up fully, Frederick squeezed his eyes shut hard, opened them, and looked again at the scene before him. The ring of salt, it seemed to Frederick, was whiter than it had been. The crystal dish of water seemed not as full. Lord Schofield kept on chanting.
The rosemary drooped and wilted. The feathers looked exactly as they had when Frederick collected them from the first hen to cross his path in the farmyard. The crackling of the fire made Frederick feel drowsy. If anything, the room had grown more stuffy than before. At last, Lord Schofield put his hands together over his heart and fell silent.
Almost overwhelmed by the warmth of the fire in the stuffy room, Frederick yawned a third time.
Lord Schofield glared at Frederick as he took up the broom and swept the whole arrangement into a heap in the center of the triangle. He disposed of the mess in the fireplace and added a few sticks of firewood to help the blaze along. Then Lord Schofield used the water in the crystal dish to wash the floor clean. At last, when the final traces of the ritual had been tidied away, he spoke. “Stop yawning, you infernal nuisance, and make yourself useful. Hand me that tankard of ale.”
Frederick obeyed. Lord Schofield leaned on the broom as he drank the ale in hasty gulps. He smacked his lips and sighed. “That’s better.”
“Salt doesn’t burn.” Frederick stared at the blaze in the hearth. He glimpsed strange colors in the flames. “Is that salt burning because you made it go whiter?”
The empty tankard hit the floor with a clank. Frederick felt the weight of Lord Schofield’s hand heavy on his shoulder. “What do you see?”
For a moment, Frederick could not utter a word. He was held f
ast in Lord Schofield’s piercing gaze. He was filled with fear that his employer saw right through him to the truth about Billy Bly.
Lord Schofield gave Frederick’s shoulder a gentle shake. “Well? Speak up. What do you see in the flames?”
Frederick looked back at the hearth. If he didn’t look at Lord Schofield, he could speak normally. If he didn’t let himself think about Billy Bly, he could tell the truth about everything else. “The ring of salt looked whiter when you were mumbling, that’s all. Is that why the fire turns green and blue now and then?”
“No.” Lord Schofield released him and took a step or two away. When at last he answered Frederick’s question, he seemed absentminded, as if he were thinking of something else entirely. “The cleansing spell absorbs all manner of impurities. It makes people sleepy too. I don’t know why.”
“But why does the fire burn green and blue?” Frederick persisted.
“The salt changes its nature when it takes the impurities in, just as the nature of the impurity is changed by the spell. That’s what burns green and blue, the residue.”
Frederick dared to glance back at his employer. “There were impurities, then?”
“A great many of them,” Lord Schofield agreed. “More than enough to account for the sinister signs you reported. Don’t speak of this to Lady Schofield. Given her condition, I won’t have her troubled.”
“What condition?” Frederick picked up the discarded tankard. “She seemed perfectly well last night.”
Lord Schofield handed him the broom. “Take this back to the kitchen and tell someone to thump you on the head with it until your eyes function properly. Lady Schofield, as everyone else has noticed, is expecting a child.”
“Oh, that.” Relieved, Frederick accepted the broom. “I thought you said she had a condition.”
“That is her condition,” Lord Schofield retorted, “and I won’t have her fretting herself over gossip and rumors. The physicians agreed. The quiet of the countryside, and more to the point, the complete absence of any members of her family, will do her good. Now that she’s safely here, I mean for her to have peace and quiet. She shall, if it means I have to strangle every person I see.”
He knew it was never wise to presume on Lord Schofield’s good nature, but Frederick couldn’t keep silent any longer. “That’s your condition, sir.”
“Out of my sight, saucebox, or I shall begin the strangling with you,” said Lord Schofield. “If you weren’t so clever about tying a cravat, I would turn you off without a reference.”
“You would, too.” Frederick put his whole heart into looking as sad as possible, no easy task, for he felt the smile he was trying to hide quirking at the corners of his mouth.
“I would!” Lord Schofield assured him. “Now go!”
That very day, at dinner in the servants’ hall, Mr. Kimball gave the staff the official announcement. “Having taken advice from the finest physicians and manmidwives in London, it was agreed the peace of the countryside would be best for Lady Schofield’s confinement. With God’s grace, she will give birth to his lordship’s first child here at Skeynes sometime in November.”
The servants had known of the pregnancy from their first look at Lady Schofield. All the same, they rejoiced at the announcement, for it meant they could speak openly of the expected event. Grant raised his glass. “If it is a boy, his lordship will stand us all champagne.”
“Never mind a few sips of champagne,” Mr. Kimball said. “If it is a boy, there will be brown ale enough for young Frederick here to swim in.”
Frederick didn’t know how to swim even in water. He didn’t see any sense whatever in trying to swim in ale, but before he could say so, Rose looked up from her plate frowning a little. “The nursery wants a good cleaning before then.”
“The nursery is clean this minute, Rose,” Nancy said. “Only this morning, I swept the hearth myself. Spick-and-span, it is. The king himself couldn’t ask for a cleaner nursery.”
“The quiet of the countryside, that’s what her ladyship needs,” Mr. Kimball said. “Good food, plenty of rest, and no fretting. We must all work hard to see Lady Schofield is well taken care of. A healthy child, safely delivered, means everything to the future of this family—and therefore to our own future here in the household.”
“When in November do they expect the baby?” asked Rose. “The fifth of November would be good. Bonfire Night.”
Nancy giggled. “Before the carriage was put away, the stable boys were making bets on the birth date. Go to them if you want a wager. You can pick the date or just bet if it will be a boy or a girl.”
“Much good a girl would do us,” said Rose. “Only a boy can inherit the title.”
“Stop it!” said Bess. “It’s only August. Months and months to go. Anything might go wrong in the meantime. Anything!”
“Quite right,” said Mrs. Dutton. “Bad luck to behave as if this is all safely settled. Think of the trouble the poor lamb has had in the past.”
“More than bad luck,” said Mr. Kimball, “it is bad form. The peace and quiet of the countryside is all very well when doctors prescribe it to their patients. Don’t make the mistake of thinking anyone has prescribed it for us. Our standards do not drop merely because we are away from London. Rose and Nancy, must I order you to leave the table? Stop that giggling.”
“What trouble has Lady Schofield had?” Frederick leaned close enough to murmur to Bess. “What did you mean, anything might go wrong?”
Softly, Bess explained to Frederick. “This is the second time Lady Schofield has fallen pregnant. She lost the first baby. Last time, the moment the labor pains came on her ladyship, his lordship fell ill himself. Terrible, the misery he was in, and for once, no complaining from him, not a word.”
“Not a word?” Frederick did not believe it. He knew Lord Schofield was free with complaints, often over the tiniest things. “Truly?”
“Yes, truly. Lord Schofield was as brave as could be, while her ladyship, well!” Bess was all admiration for Lady Schofield. “She was braver than that. She was like the Spartan lad who let a fox gnaw his vitals.”
Frederick stared at Bess. “There was a fox?”
“No, of course there wasn’t. Wait. I don’t mean to confuse you. It’s only a story,” Bess explained. “Her maid told me. In ancient times, the Spartans trained their children never to admit to pain. A boy was caught with a fox—I can’t remember what he was doing with a fox stuffed in his shirt, so don’t ask me—and he never said a word, even though the fox chewed at him the whole time.”
Mr. Kimball dismissed the servants, and everyone pushed back from the table still talking among themselves. The next chance he had, Frederick whispered to Bess, “Then what happened?”
Bess stopped clearing the table to gaze at Frederick. “It was dreadful. Sorrow and grief for months afterward. Lord and Lady Schofield were so sad.”
“About the fox, I meant. What happened to the boy with the fox?”
“Oh, to the Spartan boy?” Bess went back to stacking dirty plates. “He died, of course.”
“That’s it? He died?” Frederick was disgusted. “That’s a terrible story! And what’s the point of it? Lady Schofield can’t die. His lordship is a wizard. He wouldn’t let her.”
“Women do die in childbirth,” Bess retorted. “It happens all the time.”
“Not to rich women,” Frederick insisted. “Not to ladies.”
“Yes, it does so, and anything could happen to Lady Schofield,” Bess whispered fiercely back. “If anything goes wrong, you can forget your promises. I won’t tell your secret unless I must. But if Lady Schofield is in any danger, I shall. I’ll tell everyone.”
“Are you waiting for those plates to grow hands and wash themselves?” Mrs. Dutton demanded. “Away with you, Frederick, and let Bess get on with her work.”
11
IN WHICH FREDERICK MEETS HIS SECOND WIZARD
A week after Lord and Lady Schofield’s arrival at Skeynes,
a visitor arrived. Frederick was just tying Lord Schofield’s cravat when Mr. Kimball, looking solemn as an owl, joined them.
“My lord, I regret to disturb you, but the mail coach has brought a—gentleman.” Mr. Kimball hesitated over the word just long enough to make it plain that he didn’t mean it. “He says his name is Pickering. He insists he is here because you summoned him. I’ve put him in the tapestry room.”
“Pickering? Laurence Pickering? That’s all? Those blockheads!” His cravat secured, Lord Schofield brushed Frederick aside to address Kimball. “I wrote to the Royal College of Wizards asking for them to send me the wizards who broke the spell on this place. But do they send me the eleven wizards? Do they send me ten? No! They send me one! Pickering!”
Eager to see even one of the wizards who had broken the Skeynes curse, Frederick followed Kimball as Kimball followed Lord Schofield downstairs to the tapestry room. There, folded up into a corner of one of the armchairs, they found a skinny young man, more than half asleep. When Hetty had talked about wizards, she had made this one, Mr. Pickering of the torn sleeve, with his fondness for her mother’s pastry, seem almost like an ordinary person. Frederick could see why Mr. Kimball had been doubtful about the man’s social position. The clothes he wore were too old to be fashionable, but although soiled by the journey, they were well cut and well cared for. Frederick suspected Mr. Pickering’s chin had not yet seen a razor that day, but his fair hair was clean and combed.
“Pickering!” Lord Schofield loomed over his visitor. “It is the height of rudeness to fall asleep during a social call.”
Frederick knew from the tone of Lord Schofield’s voice that his employer was annoyed but not truly angry. From the way Mr. Pickering completely ignored his host, it looked as if the newcomer knew it too.
Eventually Pickering stirred and yawned. When at last he opened his eyes, it seemed that his first and only concern in the world was to polish and adjust his spectacles.
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