Sorcerer to the Crown

by Zen Cho

  “I do not see how that helps matters. I expect he will be very cross to hear you have hexed his daughter,” said Prunella severely.

  She knelt and raised her fallen friend’s head with all the gentleness her manner towards Zacharias had lacked: “Poor Henny! To think that you were defending the Sorcerer Royal, only to be so served out by the wicked creature!”

  “I did not—” Zacharias began, but he had no opportunity to complete his defence, for Henrietta sat up and said:

  “Prunella, if you do not stop upbraiding Mr. Wythe, I declare I really will faint, and I expect I will do myself an injury, and then you will be sorry for being so shrewish!”

  Whereupon she burst into tears.

  • • •

  PRUNELLA was more relieved than not to be sent to her room in disgrace. She had not a high tolerance for sentiment, and within five minutes of Henrietta’s dissolving into tears, half the class had followed her. Prunella had been rather enjoying herself till then, but when faced with a class of upset girls the fun of the affray had drained out of her, leaving her cold and uncertain. She had been in scrapes often enough, but she had never seen anything quite like the look on Mrs. Daubeney’s face.

  She was uneasy as she let herself into her little room, tucked in the draughty east wing of the school. On any ordinary day she would have taken advantage of the unexpected luxury of leisure to take a nap: sleep could not be overvalued by one who rose at five and often did not get to bed till eleven. But she was too restless. The look on Mrs. Daubeney’s face would recur, though of course Mrs. Daubeney could not blame Prunella for her students’ bad temper—could she?

  “She ought to pick better-humoured girls to instruct, or at least teach them to avoid politics once she has them,” Prunella said to herself. “Mrs. D is always saying that a female ought not to know what to think about anything, but ought to do that prettily. Not but what she is shockingly bad at that herself!”

  As she paced her room she caught a glimpse of herself in the small, cracked green looking glass on the wall. Her dress bore grey patches of dust, which must have been acquired in the attics. Clothed in this, she had appeared before the Sorcerer Royal!

  Not that she gave a fig what the Sorcerer Royal thought. Only it was provoking to have looked so bedraggled before such a very handsome young gentleman. (Prunella saw now what had lent Henrietta such fire in arguing her cause against Clarissa’s. A single dinner party would quite suffice to make any susceptible young lady fall desperately in love with a gentleman as beautiful and melancholy as Mr. Wythe.)

  “Bother those attics!” she said.

  But in a moment Prunella had forgotten all about Mr. Wythe, for her own words reminded her of the attic she had been cleaning. In that large, cold, cluttered room sat a piece of old tarpaulin—and under it, a certain valise.

  • • •

  THE valise could not conveniently be hidden under her arm or her dress, so Prunella ran all the way from the attics down to her room. Her pulse beat high in her throat, though no one was about.

  “It is not theft,” she thought. “Not truly theft, if it is really my father’s.” If it was not her father’s valise she would return it to the attic, of course, but the only way she might find out was by looking into it.

  In her bedroom she dragged a chair over to the door. Having secured herself as much privacy as was possible for her, she opened the valise, sneezing as the dust flew from its surface.

  How odd she felt! But hexes always excited the stomach. She was not nervous about what she might find within the valise. Like as not it was not her father’s at all, and had nothing of interest in it. Indeed, why should she care if it was her father’s, since she had never known him?

  Despite these brave prophylactics against disappointment, Prunella was inclined to be crestfallen when she drew out of the valise a sheaf of old papers—newspapers and torn receipts, of no account. But the next thing was a worn old journal, bearing the name Hilary Reuel Gentleman, proving she was no thief—and then a black velvet pouch, which promised to be of even greater interest.

  Still, this was so little that when she had emptied the valise she overturned it and shook it out, to make sure she had missed nothing. Something clinked on the floor, and would have rolled away into the darkness under the bed if Prunella had not caught it.

  It was a small, heavy silver ball, engraved all over with intricate curlicues and dots. Among the swooping strokes and flourishes could be discerned the occasional exotic flower and animal, represented in miniature. Strange hues gleamed upon its surface: first it was silver, but then it was illuminated by a purple light, then green, then blue, the colours following each other in quick succession.

  The weight of the ball in her palm seemed curiously disproportionate to its size. It felt as though it contained a great deal more than could be encompassed by anything so small.

  “Perhaps it is a locket,” said Prunella, and set about prying it open, but there was not a join or gap to be found upon it. After some fruitless striving she surrendered the attempt.

  She looked at the journal, but decided to leave it to the side for the moment, though she would not admit even to herself why she avoided it. “Doubtless it would take a vast time to puzzle out”—(letters were not Prunella’s strong point)—“most likely it is nothing worth reading—scribbles about his day, and what he ate, and what the weather was like.”

  The black velvet pouch seemed safer, and Prunella harboured a faint hope that it might contain jewels, or perhaps gold guineas. It was nothing of the sort, however. She poured out upon her palm seven blue stones.

  “This is my treasure!” she exclaimed. “A trinket, seven stones, a bundle of old papers, and a journal! Mrs. Daubeney need hardly begrudge me such an inheritance.”

  There was nothing for it: she must look into the journal now, while she had leisure to examine her find. Prunella opened the book and smoothed its pages, with hands that did not shake—and even if they did, it did not signify, for no one saw her.

  Though her lips moved as she read, and it was necessary for her to rely upon the aid of a finger to trace the lines, she was soon engrossed. The owner had only used about ten pages, filling them with scattered notes. But he had preserved letters within the leaves of the journal, and stray pieces of paper upon which he had copied out what seemed to be quotes from books—books on magic.

  There was enough to keep Prunella occupied for several hours. When she finally looked up from the journal, it was almost time for the Sorcerer Royal’s speech. She was stiff and cold.

  Prunella took out the stones again, noting the trembling of her hands with a philosopher’s detachment. She shivered partly from the cold, but partly, too, from what she had learnt. It seemed strange that she should still be the same Prunella, possessed of the same chapped hand.

  The stones looked as obdurately dull as ever, save for their colour. They were a pure, pale blue like robins’ eggs, but veined with gold.

  “What Mrs. D will say when I tell her!” said Prunella. Her laughter rang out, bell-like, in the stillness of the room.

  6

  ZACHARIAS WOULD NEVER make a sensation as an orator, but luckily his speech for Mrs. Daubeney’s gentlewitches did not require any great oratory from him. He congratulated the young ladies on their good fortune in being educated at such a school, under the auspices of such a Mrs. Daubeney. He elaborated upon the perils to the fairer sex of venturing into the rarefied realms of thaumaturgy, and praised the instructresses who laboured to prevent his audience’s meeting that dreadful fate.

  Even as he recited the conventional objections to women’s magic, however, Zacharias was mulling over the arguments in favour of it. He had been struck by the scene in the classroom. The spells Miss Gentleman had cast had been crude enough, but they had appeared to be of her own devising, and spoke of skill startling in an untrained female. That she had contriv
ed to juggle such a number of enchantments while under attack, and in such infelicitous conditions as obtained in that room of weeping girls, was impressive.

  But could female ability be any argument for encouraging women to exercise it? Surely feminine magic must be curbed, magic being so peculiarly detrimental to women’s delicate frames. Besides, magic was too hard to come by in these days for it to be frittered away in women’s frivolities—ballgowns and christening gowns and gowns of other descriptions.

  Yet the moment this thought passed through Zacharias’s mind, his conscience presented the image of Lady Wythe as a counterpoint. Anyone less likely to waste magic in fripperies was impossible to imagine—unless it were the cooks, maids, charwomen, herbwives, and other females of the lower classes, who were permitted to practise their craft in peace, because they employed it for the benefit of their betters.

  For that matter, what could be more wasteful than the manner in which the heedless young members of the Theurgist’s amused themselves? Magical fireworks and talking reflections were the least of their extravagances.

  At this juncture, Zacharias’s speech and (somewhat more to his irritation) his thoughts were interrupted by a disturbance in the audience. A small crowd formed around a girl who had fainted.

  When Zacharias approached he found Miss Gentleman kneeling by the girl, trying to revive her by the application of sal volatile. Mrs. Daubeney waved him away.

  “Pray do not be concerned, Mr. Wythe!” she said. “Such a to-do over a trifle! The silly girl ought to have known she was permitted to suspend her exercises today.”

  “It was instead of lines,” said a pale maiden. “Olivia said she would rather chant the Seven Shackles all day than look at another line. She had lines yesterday for impertinence, and then today she was late to breakfast.”

  “Is the young lady unwell?” said Zacharias. “If her indisposition is connected to magic, I beg you will permit me to examine her.”

  “It is nothing to do with magic—quite the contrary,” said Mrs. Daubeney, who would have been most grateful if Zacharias had had the decency to remove himself from the scene. “A little faintness is a natural consequence of the Seven Shackles. The girls are told never to do it but on a full stomach. I suppose the silly creature missed her breakfast, but insisted on continuing with the exercise even during your speech, so that it would be finished sooner. Olivia never can take thought for the future.”

  “Oh, but she was,” said Prunella. “She must have been thinking of plum pudding at dinner today—the Seven Shackles during dinner would quite ruin her appetite. And there is the excursion tomorrow, that Miss Mortimer promised her class. If Olivia had postponed the exercise, she should have been too ill to go.”

  “But what is this exercise?” said Zacharias, who was appalled by the unconscious girl’s appearance. Her countenance was bloodless, her lips blue, and her chest barely moved with her breath.

  “My dear Mr. Wythe, do not you know? The Seven Shackles are quite the finest innovation of our age!” cried Mrs. Daubeney. “I make sure to have our girls practise it regularly, and it has a most salutary effect.”

  “I have never heard of it in my life,” said Zacharias. “And you will allow me to say, Mrs. Daubeney, that I hope never to hear of anything like it, if this is its effect!”

  “Mr. Wythe likely knows it under another name,” said Prunella, apparently addressing Mrs. Daubeney. “You know, ma’am, that it is based upon Pobjoy’s taking.”

  “Pobjoy’s taking?” If Zacharias had been alarmed before, now he was horrified. “But that is a killing curse! It has been prohibited by the Society for hundreds of years, for its effect of draining magic from its victims.”

  “But there can be nothing wrong in the girls’ doing it to themselves, you know, for it is not as though they inflict it upon anyone else,” said Mrs. Daubeney eagerly. “Besides, you must not mislead Mr. Wythe, Prunella. It is not quite Pobjoy’s taking, but an adaptation by one of our mistresses. The Seven Shackles only cause a mild enervation, which need not lead to any lasting damage if proper precautions are taken. When it has drained the girls’ magic, it releases it into the air, counteracting the general decline. So you see it is a most ingenious device!”

  “Most ingenious! A curse I would not put upon my worst enemy!” said Zacharias.

  “But I do not know why there should be any objection,” said Mrs. Daubeney, in tears. “It is only a little inconvenience—nothing to speak of—and in consequence the girls are preserved from magic, and magic preserved for thaumaturgy. Why, I wrote of the Seven Shackles to Lord Burrow, and he commended the practise. He said it is just what the country needs!”

  “She is waking up!” exclaimed Prunella. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Olivia. You have frightened everyone out of their wits. Let us get you to bed, and never worry about the plum pudding, for you may be sure Cook will save you a piece.”

  Zacharias reined in his indignation. He had no wish to distract attention from the girl.

  “You are quite right,” he said, his voice as even as he could make it. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Daubeney. It is an excellent innovation, I am sure. I was only a little taken aback. But if the Society approves it . . .” He allowed his voice to trail off.

  He was still simmering at what struck him as a reprehensible breach in an institution with so many young lives in its care, but a lifetime’s practise of self-control enabled him to conceal this. Mrs. Daubeney curtseyed, smiling graciously (if a trifle wetly). Zacharias would have had no doubt that he had brought it off—if not for the sardonic light in Miss Gentleman’s eye.

  • • •

  AFTER the extraordinary interruption to the Sorcerer Royal’s speech Mrs. Daubeney retired to her boudoir. The mistresses were tasked with entertaining Mr. Wythe while she recovered her spirits—and told Prunella off.

  Prunella was not overly exercised by the summons. Mrs. Daubeney would scold her for the morning’s work, no doubt, but her trespasses must have been thrown in the shade by Olivia’s display. Besides, though Mrs. Daubeney did not know it, Prunella now possessed a potent weapon—such intelligence as would make Mrs. Daubeney forget all her complaints.

  Prunella might have concealed her discovery of her father’s valise if there had been nothing in it but the journal and the trinket, for those could be of no value to anyone but herself. Now that she knew what she possessed, however, it was clear that the good fortune must be shared with Mrs. Daubeney.

  Mrs. Daubeney was reclining upon an ottoman when Prunella entered the room, her eyes fixed on some dreadful invisible sight. She looked like the lead actress in a tragedy, but this accorded with Prunella’s expectations. Mrs. Daubeney would enact her theatricals—alternate between tears and vapours, and rain down voluble reproaches upon Prunella’s head—but she would feel all the better for it, and there would be an end to the matter. Mrs. Daubeney never held a grudge.

  “This morning’s scene in the eldest class, Prunella!” she exclaimed. “How could you have permitted the girls to run so wild? For the Sorcerer Royal to have witnessed such brazen indulgence in magic at my school, when magic is the one thing I have set my face against—oh, it is beyond anything!”

  Prunella had resolved to wait out Mrs. Daubeney’s complaints, but she was full of her news, and she could not resist the opportunity to introduce the subject.

  “But you must not be too prejudiced against magic, you know, Mrs. Daubeney,” said Prunella. “Why, only consider, if it were not for magic you would not have a school at all.”

  “I should be pleased to give up the school if it meant no girl in England was afflicted with magical ability,” said Mrs. Daubeney mendaciously. “But pray, Prunella, do not seek to change the subject. I am not sure you have a proper consciousness of what you have done. You ought to have considered me, but no one ever does, and it puts me in an impossible position!”

  Mrs. Dau
beney dissolved into tears. This might have dismayed anyone who knew her less well, but not Prunella. She rose and searched in a pretty japanned cabinet, unearthing a handkerchief, and thrust this into Mrs. Daubeney’s unresisting hand.

  “I am sure I have done my best for you,” wept Mrs. Daubeney. “Indeed, no one expected that I should do so much. When your dear father died, my friends advised me to send you away. Why should I burden myself with the care of an infant unconnected to me, they said? But I ignored their counsel.”

  Prunella was properly grateful, and said so, but she added, “My father did leave some money for my upbringing, ma’am. You know he left enough to feed and house me, till I turned eighteen.”

  “But you are now nineteen,” pointed out Mrs. Daubeney between sobs. “Not that I begrudge the care I have given you, but money does not go as far as it did when dear Gentleman died, and all he left is spent.”

  Mrs. Daubeney had nonetheless suffered very little from permitting Prunella to continue at the school. Prunella had started teaching the littlest girls when she was fourteen, and she had run errands and helped with the work of the household even before then. She did not remind Mrs. Daubeney of this, but for the first time it occurred to Prunella to wonder whether it really was the best course to tell Mrs. Daubeney of her discovery.

  “You know the one wish of my heart has been to help England’s magical womanhood,” said Mrs. Daubeney. “There are not so many magical schools for young ladies, and with a little effort we might easily become the first among them. The Sorcerer Royal’s visit was the answer to all my prayers, and to have such an opportunity squandered is what I will not stand for.”

  “Was the Sorcerer Royal very cross?” Prunella ventured. “He did not seem excessively put out this morning.”

  Mr. Wythe had seemed far more vexed by the Seven Shackles, she thought. If Mrs. Daubeney had observed this herself, however, she did not mention it. In common with most of humanity, she possessed a convenient capacity for forgetting anything that might cause her discomfort.