“Ah, maybe. Probably. Just to Eddy, anyways.”
“Indiscreet. When Dr. Benetutti put up the wards, we discussed keeping talk about magic inside them.”
The seat Daniel had warmed up really was starting to feel like a rack. “I guess I screwed up. I’m sorry, Professor.”
“I don’t need an apology, Sean. I need you to take our precautions seriously. Orne’s pursuit has always worried me. Why single out Sean Wyndham to be his apprentice?”
Sean looked at the Founding windows and the figure in the forest shadows. “It wasn’t Nyarlathotep that sent Orne after me?”
“Nyarlathotep’s certainly aware of all magicians, actual and potential. However, I think Orne’s interest preceded his Master’s.”
A tray on the conference table corralled a carafe of ice water and four glasses. Sean reached for a glass; Helen, closer, poured the water, then said, “Remember how Orne was surprised when Nyarlathotep appeared to you at the summoning?”
Sean rolled the cool glass between his palms. “Like Orne thought, ‘Hey, I’m the only one supposed to be messing with this kid’?”
“Exactly. Again, what made Orne pick you to mess with? Until recently, we didn’t know.”
“That’s changed,” Marvell said. “As Helen told your father yesterday.”
The phone call at last. On Marvell’s cue, Helen coughed, then started talking. “Jeremy agreed we’d better be the ones to tell you about it, since we had the data.” She patted the canary yellow binder.
Sean vacillated between hoping she’d open it and willing her to toss it out the window.
She did neither, instead winkling out a legal-sized sheet of paper, which she smoothed under her palms, blank side up. “Recently I was helping an Order member research magical lines—families that have produced magicians. That made me think about researching your genealogy.”
Sean had one? Duh, everyone did, even if it wasn’t drawn up on paper. “My granddad Stewie’s into that.”
“Jeremy told me, and your grandfather was good enough to send me his notes. They’re detailed on the Polish side, the Krols and Dudeks. On the English side, he didn’t have anything earlier than the 1850s. A friend of Theo’s at the New England Historic Genealogical Society made it to 1715 before he hit a wall at Thaddeus Howe, whose mother was a Constance Cooke from Boston. The other Cooke children appear in the usual records, but not Constance. Before her marriage, her only appearance is in the Cooke family Bible, as ‘Constance, taken in, 1693.’”
“She was adopted?”
Helen had cut her hair short, so when she reached for the lock she used to worry during the Servitor crisis, she had to settle for rubbing her cheekbone. “But adopted from whom? Then I remembered where I’d seen the names Constance and Cooke before.” She paused, as if waiting for Sean to have his own eureka moment.
Nothing, though “Constance” did tease his memory. “Where was that?”
“Redemption Orne’s journals, the ones you and Eddy read last summer. I looked at them again and saw that Orne had an uncle in Boston named Cooke.” Helen fingered the sheet of legal paper. “And that Orne’s daughter was named Constance.”
Helen was right about the daughter. “Yeah, but that Constance died. It’s in the Arkham Witch Panic book. Redemption and Patience’s baby died right after they hanged Patience.”
“That’s what I thought, too. Except it was too big a coincidence. Redemption and Patience had a baby named Constance. In 1693, when Constance Orne would have been a year old, Redemption’s uncle adopted a Constance of about the same age.”
From the concerned look Helen gave Sean, she must have noticed the break of sweat that chilled his face. But she plowed on: “I checked the archives of the Third Congregational Church and found a record of Constance Orne’s burial in 1693. Then I found a collection of letters at the Arkham Historical Society. They’d belonged to Nicholas Brattle, who was pastor of the Third when Redemption was its teacher. One letter was from Alden Cooke, Redemption’s uncle. He wrote to thank Brattle for helping free an innocent from the infamy of her parents, a convicted witch and fallen minister. Cooke didn’t name the innocent, but I’ve got to conclude it was Constance Orne, and that what Brattle did to free her was to fake a burial record.”
First Sean had to close his mouth so he didn’t look like a landed trout gaping for oxygen. Second he had to make sure he’d heard Helen right. “Like, Constance Cooke was really Constance Orne?”
Helen kept her voice level but her gaze sharp, like a doctor giving bad news to a patient who might flip: “Yes, Sean.”
Sean swallowed. “Constance was Patience and Redemption’s daughter.”
“Yes.”
“So, if Constance is my ancestor, they are, too.”
Helen slipped him the legal sheet, print side up. It didn’t show a whole family tree, more like one branch split off the trunk by lightning. At the left margin were the names PATIENCE BISHOP and REDEMPTION ORNE, yoked together, then an arrow to CONSTANCE (ORNE) COOKE, then more arrows and names all the way over to the last twigs, which were a yoked KATHERINE KROL and JEREMY WYNDHAM, shooting an arrow into SEAN WYNDHAM.
Sean pushed the sheet away. “What’s that make Orne to me?”
Starting at REDEMPTION, Helen counted forward to SEAN. “He’s your ten-times-great-grandfather, right, Theo?”
“That’s how I counted it.”
That was an insane number of greats. For the first time, Orne’s 338 years took on weight for Sean, became an overloaded backpack digging straps into his shoulders and chest, because what was at the end of all those years? He was. SEAN WYNDHAM.
“Sean? You okay?”
The straps of his ancestral burden cut his breath short. He’d never had an asthma attack, but this had to be what it felt like.
Marvell stood, but it was Helen who urged Sean to his feet and made him walk. The panicky suffocation eased, and by the time they’d traversed the library and returned to the table, Sean was breathing fine but burning hot. “Sorry,” he began.
“Don’t be,” Marvell said, and weirdly, there was approval in his voice. “I’d be more worried if you didn’t have that kind of reaction. Sit down. Finish your water.”
“Here’s some colder,” Helen said, pouring him a fresh glass.
The water cleared his head without extinguishing his embarrassment. “This is what you told my dad, Helen?”
“Yes.”
No wonder he’d holed up in the studio, studying Mom’s image and trying to gut down the fact that she was Redemption Orne’s nine-times-great-granddaughter. Say that Dad could get his last-summer’s wish, and kick Orne straight out of the world. Orne would remain part of their lives, tangled up in Sean’s DNA. “I guess Orne’s been watching his line? Looking for magicians?”
“That would make sense,” Marvell said. “Doubtless from Constance on forward.”
“Was Constance magical?”
“We have no record of it, and the same’s true for Orne’s other descendants. But magicians tend toward secrecy, and many magic-capables never realize they have the knack.”
If it hadn’t been for Orne, Sean might not have realized it, either.
“And magic-capability’s a complex genetic trait,” Helen said. “No one’s worked out the exact mechanics of transmission, but it looks like magic often skips several generations.”
“Is that what happened with my line?”
“All we know for sure is from Mr. Geldman. He and Orne are friends of a sort.”
Marvell rolled his eyes. “Of a very odd sort, but we’re not here to wrestle with that enigma. Orne told Geldman that none of his previous apprentices have been related to him. You’d have been the first.”
“Does it make a difference, Professor? If a magician’s apprentice is related to him?”
“Possibly. Master and apprentice establish a psychic bond that allows them to exchange energy. At its most extreme, the bond can merge them into a single acting unit, a synergy g
reater than the sum of its parts. Am I making sense?”
“The strongest kind of bond is this synergy thing?”
“Precisely. Even married couples—Redemption and Patience, say—are unlikely to achieve a true synergy. Virtually all known cases have been between magicians related by blood. And I’m afraid that explains why Orne’s pursuing you.”
“So synergy’s bad?”
From Marvell’s scowl, Sean had asked the world’s stupidest question. “The term may imply equal partnership, but in practice, the master dominates. Picture his hold over an apprentice as a small-scale version of the one Nyarlathotep exerts on allied magicians.”
Which would suck. “Orne never said we were related.”
Helen said, “Maybe he was afraid of spooking you.”
“And would he have?” Marvell asked.
The library was cool—no visible air-conditioning, so more magic?—but not cool enough to account for Sean’s goose bumps. “Well, yeah.”
Marvell brought his hands together in a single emphatic clap. “Stay afraid, then. Never let your relationship to Orne make you trust him. He’s out for himself and, necessarily, his master. Give him the chance, and he will, for all practical purposes, enslave you.”
Helen had nodded at every beat of Marvell’s warning. “Remember what Geldman said about Orne: He’s like Satan in the Bible, a lion seeking someone to devour.”
And Geldman was Orne’s friend? Frenemy was more like it. Sean glanced at the Satan in the Founding window, Nyarlathotep actually, no devil. The Outer God was real. His servant, lion-Orne, was real, and still lying in wait for Sean. Yeah, like any ten-times-great-grandfather would do, could you blame him?
He pushed damp hair off his forehead. “I understand, Professor. And, I mean, he’s not a close relative. Not somebody to get all mushy about.”
Cold as a judge, Marvell said, “He’s somebody who should have died centuries ago.”
That was harsh, as if simply breathing for so long were a crime, but Sean wasn’t about to stick up for Orne. “I didn’t want to sign up with him before, and being related makes it even creepier. Forget about him.”
“Don’t forget,” Marvell said. “Avoid.”
“Right. Exactly.”
“That also means remember about Orne’s spies and don’t talk about your magical business in unwarded places.”
“Okay, Professor.”
“And if you see the aether-newt again, get into a warded place.”
“Okay.”
“And if Orne tries to contact you in any other way, tell me or Helen immediately.”
“No problem.”
As if talking about Orne had given Marvell an anxiety attack as bad as Sean’s, he rose and paced the library. Sean leaned toward Helen. “Is the meeting over?”
“No,” she whispered back. “But don’t worry. We’ve dropped our big bomb.”
“You’re sure about me and Orne?”
“I wouldn’t have told you otherwise.”
“But what should I do about it? Should I tell anyone else?”
She smoothed the mockingly cheerful hide of her binder. “You could tell Eddy. I’d wait on Daniel, since you’re just getting to know him.”
“Yeah, it might scare him off, how I’m the spawn of an evil wizard.”
He’d expected Helen to laugh. She didn’t. “You are going to take this seriously, Sean?”
“Yeah, I just meant—” Nothing, that was what he’d meant. “I was just kidding.”
“All right. And you’re not a spawn.”
“Don’t count on that.”
His usual composure regained, at least outwardly, Marvell returned and seated himself on the broad sill of the east windows. He leaned out and waved at someone. “Daniel and Eddy are in the garden. It looks like they’re waiting for you, Sean, so let’s finish up. Helen, Eddy will be working at the MU Library weekdays, nine to two?”
Helen nodded.
“So Sean and Daniel will have class the same hours. We’ll meet in the library here. You’ll have reading, but no papers or tests. The weekends are all yours.”
“Sounds great, Professor.”
“You will have a curfew. Ten o’clock, unless you’re with an Order member.”
Ten was too early, but if they wanted to hit a midnight movie, Eddy could talk Helen into playing chaperone.
“One more thing, which I hope won’t disappoint you.”
Sean sat as straight as his chair allowed, which was straight of the ramrod variety. This had to be about his mentor. If there was disappointment involved, he might not get Geldman, or even Benetutti, but a magician he didn’t know yet. Still, that could be cool—
“I’ve been thinking about last summer,” Marvell went on. “How one day you thought magic was a pleasant fantasy, the next you found out it was real and potentially deadly. An extreme introduction, do you agree?”
He’d be an idiot not to. “Yes, Professor.”
“Facing not just the Servitor but an Outer God? People have been staggered by much milder exposure to the truth of the Mythos. I’m impressed by how well you’ve handled it. However—”
However, the Death Star of words. Sean held on for the blast.
Marvell fired. “We need to pull you back a few steps. You started with advanced practical magic, which is exactly the wrong way to start. Theory should come first. Without it, a student’s magic remains wild. So for now you’ll concentrate on theory.”
That disappointment Marvell had been worried about? A big old fist of it hung in the air ready to punch Sean in the gut. Maybe he could still dodge it. “Okay, but I’ll still learn a little practical magic?”
“No. You won’t learn any.”
The big old fist nailed him, right in the solar plexus. “But what will I do with my mentor?”
“Since you won’t be practicing magic, you won’t need a mentor this summer.”
Big old fist nailed him again, lower.
Helen jumped in. “Sean, I know you were looking forward to studying with a magician. But, believe me, theory will keep you plenty busy for two months.”
“And I hope to make it interesting,” Marvell said.
He and Helen—Helen, especially—looked like the parents of a kid on the brink of a tantrum because the expensive present he’d unwrapped wasn’t exactly what he’d wanted. Sean had to remind himself that these were the people who’d helped save his butt last year. They were offering him a huge opportunity right now. Spoiled-brat behavior was not an option, even though Marvell had never talked about going backwards before. “I guess it makes sense, theory first.” It almost choked him, but he added, “And so waiting for a mentor makes sense, too.”
“I’m glad you see that,” Marvell said with a brisk finality that cut off any further discussion. When he came around the table, right hand out, what could Sean do but shake it and seal the deal? Then Marvell checked his watch. “I’m late for the acquisitions meeting,” he told Helen. To Sean, he said, “I’ll see you and Daniel tomorrow at nine.”
After he’d left, Helen collected glasses and notes. “It’s a load off my mind, Sean, telling you about Orne. Are you okay with it? Well, reasonably okay?”
To tell the truth, the no-mentor announcement had smacked him so hard, he’d half-forgotten about Orne. “I guess. Orne was stalking me before. Only change, now I get why.”
“Look, if you want to talk, I’m available. So is your father. He said to call him whenever you want.”
“Yeah, I will. But it’s not an emergency. I don’t have to get him up in the middle of the night or anything.”
Helen passed him, binder under one arm, tray in her hands. She still managed to give him an elbow-to-elbow bump. “Better get back to Eddy and Daniel before they decide we’ve thrown you in the dungeon.”
“You’ve got a dungeon?”
“Haven’t found it yet, but there has to be one in a house like this.”
Sean opened the library doors for Helen, but did
n’t follow her out. Instead he turned back toward the Founding windows. Since he couldn’t flip off Orne to prove the big reveal hadn’t freaked him out, he flipped off Orne’s boss, Nyarlathotep. The Dark Pharaoh didn’t react, of course, but his crow familiar—did it flare out a halo like the one he’d glimpsed yesterday? Any extra brilliance was gone before he could focus on the stupid bird, and the more impressive window phenomenon was Eddy, bobbing and flailing in an east wall casement as if doing jumping jacks. Her mouth worked without producing a peep; the ward that squelched obnoxious exterior noise must have considered her one.
Eddy would love hearing that, so Sean headed for the garden to tell her.
5
Dominating the side garden was a copper beech so massive, it must have been planted the same year the house was built. Eddy swung on a low branch. Far above, a loafered foot dangled before disappearing into the canopy. “That’s Daniel?” Sean asked.
“Yeah, he’s a freaking squirrel.” Eddy left the under-tree shade and sat on a marble bench otherwise occupied by copies of Franny and Zooey. She took them onto her lap to make room for Sean. “I was worried he couldn’t climb with his hands scarred, so I’m like, ‘Helen’s going to kill me if you fall.’”
“I saw the scars. They’re pretty weird.”
“I asked him what happened. He said his hands were burned so bad, they couldn’t save any of the skin. So they took skin off another part of his body—”
“Which?”
“He didn’t say. Probably his butt. Anyhow, they sewed the new skin on his hands like gloves, which is why the scars look like seams. His toes are the same way, he said.”
Loafers dangled again, followed by khaki legs. The khaki butt didn’t look big enough to provide skin for two hands and ten toes, though couldn’t they stick balloons under your skin and slowly pump them up to stretch it? If Daniel had gone through that, two burgeoning cheeks and nurses always checking on the progress, he deserved major sympathy.
The rest of Daniel appeared. He waved at them before continuing his descent.
“Did he say anything else about the car wreck?” Sean asked.
Fathomless Page 5
