A College of Magics

by Caroline Stevermer

  Yet, if he wanted to kill her, why had he not done so long before? Why send her off to an expensive school, haul her out of it just before she finished, and then kill her? And why hire a bodyguard to make the task harder for himself?

  But if not Brinker, who?

  There were no cabs, no sinister men strolling the boulevard Saint Germain or its side streets.

  “Well, if we’ve accomplished nothing else, we’ve shaken off anyone who might be following us,” said Jane cheerfully. “Shall we go back to the hotel now, Faris? Or would you rather take a run to the Bois de Boulogne? Or even out to Fontainebleau? It’s a shame to have the use of a splendid motor car like this and to waste it driving in the city.”

  “Why would they need to follow us?” asked Reed. “If all Paris doesn’t know the duchess of Galazon is staying at the Hotel de Crillon, it isn’t your fault.”

  “One must maintain a certain position. What shall we do, Faris?”

  Faris considered the alternatives. “I’m hungry. Among those things to do in Paris that I can’t do as well anywhere else, Jane, I would like to eat dinner.”

  “Oh, dear, didn’t you? I was certain he’d kept you to dine. It’s a trifle late for dinner now.”

  “What time is it?”

  “It’s after three. Why did you think we made such an effort to come fetch you?”

  “No wonder there was only one cab on the street.” To Tyrian, Faris said, “Time does run restfully there.” She turned to Jane. “Where is the best place to find supper at this hour?”

  “Back to the hotel, Charles. I shall perform my celebrated imitation of Aunt Alice, the compleat titled Englishwoman abroad. It may make you cringe with embarrassment, but I promise you’ll get your supper.”

  Jane sat by the fireplace in Faris’s room, and watched her eat the mixed grill sent up by room service. “It is just possible that I’ve taken my celebrated imitation a bit far. How can you eat kidneys in the middle of the night?” She shuddered delicately.

  Faris took a sip of wine. “Does that mean you don’t want any?”

  “Uncle Ambrose gave me an excellent meal, thank you.”

  “I didn’t know you had an uncle in Paris.” Faris turned her attention from the wine to the last grilled mushroom on her plate.

  “Oh, yes. Uncle Ambrose has lived here for years and years. He’s not like some uncles, though. Paris hasn’t had much effect on him. He won’t own anything but a British motor car, he smuggles all his cigarettes and cigars into France via diplomatic pouch, and at the races he still grumbles that the horses run the wrong way. Quite a dear old boy.”

  “I’ve never been in a motor car before.” Faris put her knife and fork down with a small sigh. “It was most interesting.”

  “You didn’t seem too interested at the time. You didn’t even seem too interested in your pursuers.”

  “I was thinking.” Faris regarded Jane seriously. “You haven’t asked me about Hilarion.”

  Jane arched an eyebrow. “I am perishing with curiosity, can’t you tell?”

  “It seems I have to save the world.”

  “Oh, dear. Do you have the training for that?” Jane asked dryly.

  Faris smiled and leaned back in her chair. “I doubt it. But it seems I am the warden of the north.”

  Faris spent the rest of the night discussing every detail of her visit to Hilarion’s with Jane, most of the following day asleep, and half of the day after that with bankers and solicitors. She returned to the hotel at the end of the afternoon in time to witness the arrival of the first parcels from Madame Claude. Jane presided over the tea tray while Faris sat beside the fire and counted boxes.

  Faris accepted her cup from Jane. “I thought these things weren’t to come until Friday.”

  Jane offered her a plate. “Bread and butter? You seemed so disappointed, I arranged matters a bit differently with Madame Claude. Most of the order will be ready this week. Anything that isn’t finished by the time you leave for Galazon will be sent after you.”

  Struck by a sudden suspicion, Faris looked up from her tea. “How much more will that cost me?”

  “I really couldn’t say. Just think of it as another little annoyance for your uncle Brinker. Try the cake, it’s very nice.”

  “Guess, then.” Faris helped herself to a slice of hazelnut gateau. “Estimate.”

  “It’s your uncle’s money. If he’d ever given you a decent clothing allowance, this wouldn’t be necessary.”

  “It is not my uncle’s money. It is Galazon’s money. I hold it in trust.”

  Jane rolled her eyes. “Don’t be so disgustingly noble. Your people wouldn’t care to see you dressed in rags, would they? You’re representing them, aren’t you? You’ve got to keep up the side.”

  “It’s more than the year’s rent roll. I can’t just waste it.”

  Jane looked distinctly nettled. “You aren’t wasting it. Nor am I wasting it. I have chosen you a wardrobe that will probably have to last you the rest of your ridiculous life. I have managed to get the greater part of it done in less than a week. I have worked miracles for you and all you do is order me to estimate how much it cost to hurry Madame Claude a little. Yes, blush, by all means. You jolly well should blush. You owe me an apology.”

  Jane left the tea table and stalked to the heap of parcels. “You’ll be happy enough about all this when your uncle gets his first look at you. Has he ever seen you dressed decently? I doubt it. Well, when he sees you with these clothes and Dame Brachet’s manners, he’ll rue the day he ever sent you off to Greenlaw, I can promise you that.” She bent closer to inspect one of the parcels. “A few frocks, a riding habit—it’s not a crime to be well dressed in Galazon, is it?”

  “I apologize,” said Faris stiffly. “I appreciate your help. I certainly didn’t mean to be ungrateful—”

  “Be still!” Jane was still bending over one of the parcels, a gray hat-box tied with silver ribbon. She cocked her head, listening. “Fetch Tyrian and Reed at once.”

  The urgency in her voice brought Faris out of her chair and across the room without hesitation. When she returned, with Reed and Tyrian at her heels, Jane was still listening intently.

  “Do you hear that?” she demanded.

  Obediently, Faris, Reed, and Tyrian listened too.

  After a moment Reed looked up at Faris with great interest. “Your hat is ticking.”

  “It’s not a hat,” said Jane. “I haven’t ordered Faris any hats yet.”

  “Is it a bomb?” Faris asked.

  “Oh, probably,” said Reed.

  Calmly, Tyrian studied the box. “You’ll have to clear the building. They may well be counting on that, so be on your guard when you leave.”

  “What about you?” Reed demanded.

  “I’ll have to try to disarm it.”

  Reed regarded Tyrian with disbelief. “Disarm it? We have no way of knowing what it’s made out of, how it’s constructed, what happens if we move it, when it’s meant to go off—just untying the ribbon might set it off.”

  “I must try.”

  “With what? I don’t carry the tools with me. Do you?”

  In the silence that followed Reed’s question, the ticking seemed very loud. After sixty seconds had passed, Jane drew a deep breath. “Faris, you’d better leave. I’m not perfectly certain I can do this. I discussed the theory once with Eve-Marie. A pity we can’t send for her, since she’s working right here in Paris these days. But we simply can’t risk the time.”

  She held out her hands over the hat box as though she were warming them at a fire.

  “Are you quite mad?” Reed demanded. “Keep away from it.”

  Faris seized his elbow and pulled him away. “Do you think she went to school just to read three-volume novels? She’s a witch of Greenlaw. Be quiet and let her work.”

  Tyrian took two quick steps away from Jane. “What are you doing?”

  Although her open hands were trembling, Jane’s voice was steady. “One
never knows. Perhaps it is a hat.”

  The air between her palms was shimmering, as the air shimmers over a fire. The silver ribbon writhed. The box grew slightly larger, as though it had drawn a breath. A smell of scorched feathers filled the room. The ticking stopped. Very slowly, as Jane brought her open hands together, the silver ribbon turned to gray and the gray hat box turned black. Jane clasped her hands. The box remained the same.

  With a long sigh of relief, Jane lowered her hands. “That’s done it.” She frowned and rubbed her forehead. “Thank you, Eve-Marie.”

  “Done what?” asked Reed plaintively. “What’s that smell?”

  Jane ignored him as she undid the ribbon and pulled the lid off the box. Within, nestled in gray tissue paper, lay a lady’s hat. Constructed of velvet and tulle and sequins and feathers, it was a hat like a bonfire in winter, a hat of many colors, most of them variants of crimson and gold. Reverently, Jane lifted the hat free of its drab tissue nest and held it up to admire.

  Tyrian cleared his throat. “Was that quite safe?”

  Reed regarded first the hat and then Jane with great respect. “Is it really a hat?”

  Faris stared at the hat with undisguised loathing. “I won’t wear that.”

  Jane stroked the brim. “It’s a hat as long as I say it’s a hat.” She looked up at Faris. “Of course you won’t wear it. On you it would make you look like Menary in the Dean’s garden. And it has feathers. I’ll keep it.” She tucked it gently back into its tissue and closed the box. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, frowning. “I think I’ve given myself a headache.”

  Faris poured Jane a cup of tea. “I think all this makes one thing very clear. It’s time I left Paris.”

  On Friday, Faris settled her hotel bill and accompanied her luggage, which was somehow far more extensive than she had expected, to the gare de Strasbourg. There she waited with Jane while Tyrian and Reed satisfied themselves about the safety of the compartment reserved for her.

  Jane had her Baedeker open. “Strasbourg, Vienna, Budapest—you won’t have to change trains until, er, Porta Orientalis? Yes? From there it’s only a few hours until you reach Szedesvar. Is that how one pronounces it?”

  Faris nodded. “I must thank you for all you’ve done.” She spoke stiffly. Jane would detest any show of sentiment. Faris found it was hard for her to put her gratitude into words. She struggled to achieve flippancy. “Uncle Brinker certainly won’t.”

  Hardly glancing up from her guidebook, Jane continued. “I hate those foreign names with mystery letters in them. Tyrian has wired ahead to arrange a coach and four in Szedesvar. Then you’ll cross the border at Tura-Nerva. You’ll have another day on the road from there to Galazon Ducis, and after that, there you are, home safe and dry.”

  Faris steered Jane out of the path of an oncoming baggage cart. “You make it sound simple.”

  “You’ll have Reed and Tyrian to manage all the tedious bits for you. It will be simple.” Jane closed the guidebook. “You will let me know how it all turns out?” She inspected the binding of the fat little guidebook with keen interest.

  “Of course.” Faris hesitated. “Back at Greenlaw, you’ll remember me, won’t you?”

  “Oh, I expect we will. The Dean and Dame Villette particularly.”

  In the awkward silence that followed, Faris examined the small stack of baggage slips she held without really seeing them. “One day you must come to visit me.”

  Jane beamed. “Very well. Since you ask me so nicely, I’ll come. I’ve often thought it would be jolly good fun to help save the world one day. This is probably the best opportunity I will ever have to do it.”

  “What? Do you mean it?” Faris blinked at Jane in astonished glee. “Come on.” She turned toward the ticket kiosks. “Let’s go see about it at once.”

  Jane stopped her. “I’ve already booked the compartment next to yours.”

  Faris turned back. Glee in abeyance, she tried to glare at Jane. “Oh, you have, have you? Did the Dean order you to keep an eye on me? I suppose she told you the Orient-Express is full of distractions, particularly for the well-to-do.”

  “I don’t need orders from the Dean or anyone else. I decided to go with you the night you saw Hilarion. And I must say,” Jane added reproachfully, “I’m rather hurt that you didn’t invite me any sooner.”

  “You’re supposed to be teaching at Greenlaw. It never occurred to me that you would be willing to drop everything and come.”

  “You might at least have asked.”

  Faris looked sheepish. “I’m not much in the habit of asking for things.”

  Jane nodded in sympathy. “I know. It is seldom of the least use. But I think it’s wise to try it now and then, if only to keep in practice.”

  Faris could not sleep that night. She tried. Compartment window open, compartment window closed, nothing seemed to make any difference. Too many late nights and later mornings might have thrown her internal pendulum off. Or perhaps the flurry of activity required to leave Paris was to blame. That included the effort to leave with all business conducted and all luggage packed, not omitting the current newspapers and magazines most likely to yield news from Aravill and Galazon, and a neatly docketed portfolio of reports, loaned to Jane by someone she refused to identify. There would be plenty of time to read it en route, Jane had said airily, “Not like comps.” And all the while, Faris knew that as anxious as she was to leave France, she might never be able to come back.

  No matter which way she twisted and turned in her berth, Faris could not let go and allow the steady rhythm of the train to lull her to sleep. Instead of soothing her, the rhythm ran incessantly along under her thoughts: Never come back, never come back …

  Faris gave up and climbed out of her berth. Fumbling in the dark, she found her new kidskin slippers by their scent and her new dressing gown of quilted silk by touch. With the dressing gown done up securely to conceal her old nightdress, frayed by the college laundry, she opened her compartment door.

  The narrow corridor was empty. Evidently the first-class passengers had been tucked in for the night. In the dim light, Faris saw the compartment door opposite hers was open. Reed was there, on watch, according to plan.

  He came close enough for her to hear his murmur. “Need anything? I can ring for the attendant.”

  Faris shook her head. “I can’t sleep.”

  “Glass of warm milk? Deck of cards? Patience is very boring, I’m told.”

  “No, thanks. I’m just restless, I suppose.” She looked up and down the empty corridor. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  “You didn’t.” Reed closed her compartment door and beckoned her into his own. “Come smoke a cigarette or something.”

  Faris sat by the window. Reed kept his place by the door. When she refused the cigarette he offered, he put the case back in his pocket without lighting one for himself. She expected him to keep up a murmured stream of inconsequential remarks but he surprised her with his vigilant silence.

  The silence lasted a long time. Finally Faris broke it. “What do you think Brinker wants?” she asked softly, surprising herself.

  Even silhouetted against the dimly lit corridor, Reed’s shrug was eloquent. “You’re about to reach your majority. Perhaps he has finally come to terms with that, and decided to bring you back home where you belong.”

  “Perhaps.” Faris was certain Reed was being foolishly optimistic, but since he was probably doing it to make her feel better, she kept her doubts to herself. “If that is it, I wish he’d waited until I managed to graduate.”

  Reed shrugged again. “Perhaps he has his eyes on something new. He married King Julian’s heir presumptive. The king can’t live forever. Perhaps there’s some reason he needs you secure in Galazon before he can pursue his interests in Aravis.”

  Faris laughed under her breath. “You know, I just had the most ghastly thought. It hadn’t occurred to me until now, but this means Menary and I are really related. Exactly how,
I wonder?”

  “Does it? Let’s see, if your uncle married her sister, that makes you wicked stepmothers to each other, doesn’t it? What is the matter with that girl, anyway? She’s a beauty, and at least eighteen, if I’m any judge, but when she opens her mouth, she sounds about twelve.”

  “She’s used to having her own way.”

  “Well, that would be a great beauty aid. But she ought to try to sound a little less like my baby sister.”

  “If I see her in Aravis, I’ll tell her so.”

  “You mean it, don’t you? You really are going on to Aravis?”

  “I must.”

  “We need you more at home in Galazon, you know.”

  Misery and sentiment made Faris’s throat tighten. “I hope so.”

  “Those bloody-minded aristos in Aravill are none of our affair. You’d be better off staying in Galazon. There’s plenty to do.”

  “I’m a bloody-minded aristo, too, Reed.”

  “But you’re our bloody-minded aristo. It makes a difference.”

  “Thank you.” She was just able to keep the quaver of homesickness out of her voice.

  Reed started to add something, then broke off and shook his head, disgusted with himself.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Oh, nothing. I just realized why I’m never going to match Tyrian at ingratiating myself with the upper classes, that’s all.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know perfectly well. Can you imagine the conversation you’d be having if Tyrian was on watch instead of me? If he didn’t send you straight back to your compartment, with a handy dose of warm milk he happened to have up his sleeve for just such an emergency, he’d have kept it all high-minded and impersonal. He’s so good, he’s almost inhuman. It’s like he hatched from an egg.” Reed shook his head again. “I just can’t help putting my oar in.”

  Faris found her voice was back within her control. “You called me a carrot-haired gawk once, remember?”