by Zen Cho
“I was but an infant,” said Zacharias. He added, with some awkwardness, “I was travelling with my mother and father, who belonged to the captain of the Minerva.”
A fine line appeared between Prunella’s eyebrows. “Did not Sir Stephen purchase your parents as well?”
“No,” said Zacharias. “Presumably he did not discern the same potential in them.”
The statement brought up the old anger and confusion, followed by the accustomed guilt, that he should be so ungrateful as to resent the man who had rescued him from bondage. And yet he did resent Sir Stephen, even now.
“I don’t see why you feel obliged to him at all,” said Prunella. “What right had he to part you from your parents when you were so young?”
Her words seemed to echo Zacharias’s own thoughts, thoughts he had suppressed many a time, striving to feel the unclouded gratitude expected of him. What might his life have been, with a father and mother? It could not have cost Sir Stephen very much to purchase them as well—certainly not enough to strain his ample resources. How could his benevolence have extended so far as to move him to free Zacharias, but no further?
But it had been impossible to ask these questions of Sir Stephen or Lady Wythe, whose affection could not be doubted. That Zacharias’s own love for them was leavened with anger was best left unsaid; he tried not to know it himself.
“Very probably I would have been separated from my parents in any event,” he said. “What assurance can I feel that my parents were not in time separated from each other, against their will, and they powerless to prevent it?”
The answers to these questions were too painful to pursue to their conclusion, even in thought. They had only ever served to increase the complicated unhappiness that lay in wait whenever he thought of his parents.
Prunella cast her eyes down, her face troubled. The simurgh nestled close to her and nipped her ear.
“It would be terrible not to have anything of your mother and father,” said Prunella, speaking half to herself. “Not to have anything at all . . . Have you ever tried to find them, Zacharias?”
Zacharias stared at her. “Find them?”
“It is not such an extraordinary notion, surely,” said Prunella. “If I had money, as you do, I would go and look for my mother and father. Why, you do not even know they are dead. They might be alive! Just think, perhaps you could meet them—you could speak to them!” She clenched her fists, but fell silent.
They walked wordlessly together for a while, but when Zacharias spoke after a long pause, it was as if he was merely continuing a conversation they had been having all along.
“I would not have been rescued from my bondage if not for Sir Stephen’s conviction that he could make of me something extraordinary. I was not told that I must prove the African’s ability to English thaumaturgy, and Sir Stephen never said in so many words that he wished me to succeed him as Sorcerer Royal. But that these were the purposes for which I was educated was clear. Many men and women have lived and died desperate for the advantages I have been granted by a capricious Fate. How could I not perform as expected?”
“Zacharias,” said Prunella. “Did not you want to be Sorcerer Royal?”
She sounded astonished, as if the alternative had never crossed her mind before.
“I have found that opportunity brings with it its own set of chains,” said Zacharias, after a pause. “That power generates demands which cannot easily be gainsaid—as you are learning now, I think.”
“Yes,” said Prunella. She raised earnest eyes to his face. “I know I am a shocking burden to you, Zacharias, but I do wish I could help. I should like to be a friend to you, if I could.”
For some reason she blushed. Zacharias felt a corresponding warmth rise in his own face. He pressed her hand lightly, and found he would like to retain it. Discerning this inclination in himself alarmed him so much that he dropped Prunella’s hand, and assumed his most businesslike manner.
“There is one thing you could do,” he said. “I need to speak to Mak Genggang. Do you know where she is?”
19
PRUNELLA’S CONVERSATION WITH Zacharias in the Park had left her in a thoughtful mood. Though she was meant to attend a card party that evening, she was just as glad when Lady Wythe declared herself too indisposed to go.
“I am sorry to spoil your fun, my dear,” said Lady Wythe, blowing her nose. “Could not that charming young friend of yours, Mrs. Kendle, go with you? She is a flighty creature to chaperone anyone, but you are not likely to get into any sort of scrape at Mrs. Cornwallis’s.”
“Sophia is engaged tonight, I believe,” said Prunella. “I shall not mind a quiet evening. Mr. Wythe has reproved me for my want of industry, so I mean to make a great advance in my studies, and amaze him tomorrow with the perfection of my formulae.”
“I hope you will not overwork yourself,” said Lady Wythe. “Zacharias drives himself so hard that he is not properly conscious of the toll he is likely to exact by demanding the same of others.”
Prunella promised to exercise restraint, though she said ruefully, “I think there is little danger I shall do too much!”
She began the evening’s work with the best of intentions, but the elvet picked a quarrel with the other two familiars: the unicorn and simurgh possessed placid tempers, but Nidget was a jealous, spiteful creature, and objected to sharing Prunella’s affections with the others. It was necessary to separate them, and placate Nidget. And then Nidget was so amusing, and told her such curious things about Fairyland, though it had only partial, confused memories of the place, that somehow Prunella had not got past the second chapter of the book she was reading when Lady Wythe’s butler announced a visitor.
“Why, Sophia,” exclaimed Prunella. “I thought you had gone to your party. You have come at an awkward time, I am afraid. Lady Wythe is unwell, and has retired for the evening.”
Sophia Kendle was a pretty young creature, vastly proud of having been snapped up in her first Season. She had fallen madly in love with Prunella the moment they met: “I am sure you are destined to marry a duke, you are so pretty and clever, and then your not knowing anything of your family is so romantic,” she declared.
She had just turned twenty-one, but looked younger as she danced up the hall to take her friend’s hands. She formed a curious contrast with her husband—a contemporary of Sir Stephen’s and a middling thaumaturge, possessed of a considerable fortune.
“We did not come to see Lady Wythe, save to request a favour of her,” said Mr. Kendle.
“What Kendle means to say is that he is a cruel beast, and has decreed that we must go to a stupid party of thaumaturges, where I shall know no one, and be bored to death,” said Sophia. “I plagued him to stop here, so that I could beg you to come with me. Pray say you will, darling.”
Prunella hesitated. She did not know Mr. Kendle well, but he did not look as though he desired Prunella to join the party.
“I do not know that Lady Wythe will like it,” she said, but Sophia cut in eagerly:
“But she can have no objection, for I shall chaperone you, and that will be ever so droll! The party is a very respectable one, only you know thaumaturges are such tedious creatures, my dear Kendle excepted, I could not endure a whole evening among them without a friendly face to look upon. I meant to go with Amelia, but my sister is unwell, and I do not expect it will make any difference to our hosts if we exchange her for you.”
“Miss Gentleman does not wish to go, Sophia. It is uncivil to insist, and we ought not to keep the horses standing,” said Mr. Kendle.
Sophia drooped, crestfallen. Mr. Kendle looked so self-satisfied that Prunella was suddenly possessed by a spirit of perversity. She had not intended to accept Sophia’s invitation, but she should like to discomfit Mr. Kendle: Prunella disliked a man who would crow over his wife. Then, too, Mr. Kendle’s odd manner kindled her curiosity. What reason had
he to dislike her?
“Not at all!” said Prunella. “I should be pleased to go, and it is kind of you to ask, Sophia dear, for I should have been dull here by myself. Let me run up to Lady Wythe to beg her leave, but I am sure she will not mind, and we need not keep your horses waiting any longer.”
Lady Wythe had no objection to Prunella’s accompanying her friend (“Though it is curious I should not have heard of a thaumaturgical ball!” she remarked), and they were soon off in the Kendles’ carriage.
The mystery of Mr. Kendle’s manner was satisfied sooner than Prunella expected. It was dark when the carriage drew up outside a town house. The windows were blazing with amber light; carriages lined the street outside; and altogether it seemed a very considerable party. Prunella was glad she had worn her primrose silk, though it would have been a trifle grand for Mrs. Cornwallis’s party (Mrs. Cornwallis had a wealthy bachelor cousin, who had already declared his fondness for a pair of snapping black eyes).
Prunella had not contrived to catch the hosts’ name amid Sophia’s chatter. She had prepared an expression both charming and apologetic as they entered the house. When she saw the hostess she forgot her preparation altogether, however, and gaped.
“May I introduce my wife’s friend, Miss Gentleman?” said Mr. Kendle.
Mrs. Geoffrey Midsomer did not seem to know the name, or to remember Prunella from the Spring Ball. But then there had been a great many people at the Ball, and Prunella only recognised Mrs. Midsomer because of her part in its spectacular close.
“Delighted,” said Mrs. Midsomer. “How do you do, Miss Gentleman? How kind of you to come, Mr. Kendle. Geoffrey values your support beyond measure.”
Mr. Kendle glanced nervously at Prunella. “We look forward to the evening, indeed.”
Indeed, thought Prunella. She did not at all regret coming.
• • •
IT was clear the Midsomers were not aware of Prunella’s connection with the Wythes, which suited her perfectly. It was a detail they might easily have missed, as Mr. Kendle had done. Prunella doubted he had known that his wife’s friend had any connection with Lady Maria Wythe until Sophia had insisted on going to her house.
She contrived to put Mr. Kendle at his ease by disclaiming any acquaintance with the Sorcerer Royal: “Oh, he frightens me to death! Lady Wythe wonders that I am never to be found when he visits!” When he had left her and Sophia to speak to his friends, Prunella took care to ensure they were lost in the crowd, well away from their hosts.
She wished she had asked Zacharias about Geoffrey Midsomer. He was the ill-tempered man who had been so uncivil to Zacharias at the Ball, but she knew from stray snatches of conversation between Zacharias, Damerell and Lady Wythe that that was not all. Whatever the trouble was, it must account for Mr. Kendle’s being so froward about her accompanying Sophia.
“What a fascinating party!” she said to Sophia, looking about with unfeigned interest. “But this is not an official Society event, is it, Sophia?”
Sophia was not sure. “There does seem a vast number of thaumaturges! I never saw so many in my life. Kendle said it was to be a gathering only of Mr. Midsomer’s friends, but it seems he has a great many friends. What a curious creature that Mrs. Midsomer is! Did you think her pretty, Prunella?”
“I did not.”
“Nor I. Yet the Midsomer family is an old one, much esteemed in magical circles, Kendle says, though not wealthy. Mr. Midsomer could have had anyone he liked.”
Prunella thought of the broad, potato-like face of Mrs. Midsomer. It had neither charm nor beauty, but there had been a curious power in those restless, searching grey eyes.
“Perhaps he likes her,” said Prunella.
“People have the oddest tastes,” said Sophia. “What are you looking at?”
Prunella’s eye had been caught by a painting, an unremarkable daub in oils of a brownish-grey landscape. Anything less appealing could scarcely be conceived, and yet the painting was housed in a gorgeously worked gold frame, with a spray of hothouse flowers set beneath it like an offering. She pointed this out to Sophia, who exclaimed:
“But that must be the picture that prophesies! Kendle told me of it. It is a family heirloom. The Midsomers have had it since the Conquest, and they are sinfully proud of it.”
There was a dark smudge in the corner of the picture, which closer attention revealed to be a cloaked figure huddled under a ledge of rock.
“That must be the oracle,” said Sophia. “Kendle says the painting is an enchantment, and the oracle speaks prophecies when the mood takes her.”
“‘Her’?” said Prunella, looking at the smudge with fresh interest. She would have questioned Sophia further, if she had not seen the gleam of silver on the small table beneath the painting.
There was a singing orb on the table. It might have been the twin of the one she wore around her neck.
“Is something amiss?” said Sophia.
“No, why should you ask?” said Prunella. She picked up the singing orb, remarking casually: “What a pretty trinket! But you were speaking of this prophetess, Sophia. I thought women were not permitted the practise of magic?”
“Oh, the oracle was not a mortal!” said Sophia, laughing. “What a diverting notion! No, she was a sibyl, Kendle says, which is a fairy, you know. She was trapped within the picture by the artist, a thaumaturge who had been attached to her, but was betrayed in his affections.”
As Sophia spoke Prunella examined the singing orb. Their arms were still linked loosely together, and she hoped Sophia would not feel the rapid beating of her heart, or the trembling in her hand.
The orb was not quite the same as her own. It was of a different, darker metal, from which the candlelight struck bluish green sparks. It was carved with different marks, too: minute pinpricks, forming lines and flourishes that intertwined across the surface of the orb.
“What a tragic story!” said Prunella. She was wondering whether, if she could only distract Sophia for a moment, she could conceal the orb within her reticule. It was wicked to steal, of course, and Zacharias would be cross if he discovered it, but surely there was no harm in borrowing the object for a time. A comparison with her own orb might enable all sorts of instructive experiments.
“Yes, isn’t it? I adore a tragedy!” said Sophia. “Kendle tells such gruesome tales of the attachments between mortals and fairies, and they are invariably tragical, for the fairies’ caprice is beyond anything. You should hear how the Fairy Queen treats her mortal paramours when she tires of them! They are turned into mantuas and half-boots, transformed into newts, and who knows what else besides. I am sure her poor swain wished he had never taken it into his head to fall in love with a fairy!” She gestured at the painting.
“Why do you say so?” said a new voice.
Prunella hastily returned the orb to the table, and turned to face the lady who had joined them.
“Mrs. Midsomer!” she said brightly. “Mrs. Kendle and I were admiring your lovely painting.”
“It is an ugly piece, but Geoffrey likes it,” said Mrs. Midsomer. Her strange eyes seemed almost to glow with their own light. “And the sibyl serves her purpose. You do not seem to admire her, ma’am?”
Sophia was crimson. It was awkward for her to have been overheard speaking of the Fairy Queen’s discarded beaux by the wife of one such.
“One feels sorry for the poor man, you know,” she stammered. “To have his confidence so betrayed!”
“But he died of old age, whereas she is doomed to pass the rest of her life trapped betwixt gilt frames,” said Mrs. Midsomer. She turned to Prunella. “I saw you were interested in my bauble, Miss Gentleman.”
Prunella preserved her composure. Mrs. Midsomer was a whimsical creature, it was clear, but she need not think she would intimidate Prunella Gentleman.
“It is a pretty thing!” said Prunella. “I
was wondering, ma’am, what it is for?”
Mrs. Midsomer gave her such a penetrating look Prunella almost wondered whether she was able to discern Prunella’s own orb, concealed beneath the bodice of her dress. But instead of replying, Mrs Midsomer leaned over, and said to the painting:
“How are you keeping, sibyl?”
Her loud, harsh voice plucked at a memory in Prunella’s mind. Had not Zacharias said something about the voice one must use when casting spells?
“Magic hates a whisper,” he had said. “The forces of the supernatural respond best to a good strong bellow.”
The huddled figure in the painting rose, revealing a lined, weary face.
The sibyl had once been beautiful, but age and isolation had worn her down. The hair under the rough fabric of her hood was silver, the face seamed with lines of sorrow.
“What d’you want of me?” she snapped. Her voice issued from the canvas clear and curiously full-bodied, in contrast to her flattened form. “When Ormsby locked me away I thought I should at least profit from some peace, but no—it’s pester, pester, pester, all the day long. ‘What’s my fate, sibyl? What’s to become of me?’ Surely that’s clear enough—death and the ruin of all your hopes, the same for all mortals.”
“Not me,” said Mrs. Midsomer.
The sibyl pursed her lips. “I would not be so cocksure if I were you. Death and despair are hardly the preserve of mortalkind, as you’ll find soon enough.”
“It is not my fortune I wish you to tell,” said Mrs. Midsomer. “I shall make my own. But tell me of this woman.” She gestured at Prunella. “Who is she? Have I anything to fear from her?”
The sibyl raised her great hollow eyes, and Prunella felt Sophia’s arm quiver in hers.
“The mortal woman has love, but she will lose it, and know the bitterness of despair,” said the sibyl. “Which is to say, she likes her husband now, but will soon stop when she knows better.”
“That,” said Sophia, trembling in indignation, “is exceedingly impertinent!”
