03 The Mislaid Magician

by Patricia C. Wrede

  "Of a certainty, Madame," Walker replied. She sighed. "It is of all things the most unfortunate. He is a dried little stick of a man, not at all sympathique. I do not think I will learn more from him."

  "Well, don't flirt with him on our account," James advised. "We don't want you disappearing." He spoke in an offhand tone, but he was frowning heavily enough that it was clear he meant what he said.

  "No, indeed, Monsieur," Walker said.

  Unfortunately, Walker did not have occasion to speak with the housemaid (nor with Mr. Webb's valet), for that very afternoon, Mr. Webb received a fat sheaf of papers from Stockton. He immediately summoned his valet, and the two were closeted for an hour in Mr. Webb's rooms.

  Over dinner, we discovered what it was all about, at least in part. Mr. Webb announced that he had been called away most urgently and would leave in the morning for a day or two. We were all, however, most welcome to stay on, as he expected his business to be concluded quickly.

  Adella Webb immediately endorsed her brother's position, saying that she did not know how she would go on without our company. I think that they must have settled it between themselves before dinner, for she was a little too prompt with her remarks. You can easily guess the conversation that followed. James and I demurred, Miss Webb pressed us to stay, the other guests allowed themselves to be persuaded, and we would once again have been all but forced to accept their continued hospitality had I not had the presence of mind to say that we would consider their very kind invitation and speak more of it in the morning.

  James was somewhat put out, for he much prefers to make such decisions as they come to hand, if it is at all possible and wise to do so. I could see all evening how he felt, though I doubt the Webbs noticed anything amiss, and so I was quite prepared for a thundering scold when we retired to our rooms at last.

  "Cecy," he said as soon as we were private, "what maggot have you got in mind now?"

  I blinked, for this was not the opening I had expected. "None that I know of, James. To what are you referring?"

  "To your behavior at dinner. We could be packing our bags now, if you had had enough resolution to inform the Webbs that we would be leaving in the morning."

  "Why, James!" I said. "I believe that is the first time you have ever taxed me with a want of resolution."

  "Yes, it seemed odd to—" He broke off, frowning at me. "Surely you can't wish to remain at Haliwar!"

  "I thought the notion merited a private discussion," I said calmly. "Which, you must own, we could not have managed at dinner."

  "No, but—Cecy, why? And don't tell me it's because you're concerned about Daniel and Georgy, for I won't believe it."

  "But I am concerned about them," I said. "Especially since it seems very likely that whatever Daniel is mixed up in has also something to do with your missing engineer."

  "Whom, you may recall, we were sent here to find. And how I am to do that with Webb forever at my heels—"

  "That is exactly why I think we ought to consider staying," I said. "Not the way Mr. Webb follows you about, I mean, but to take advantage of the opportunity to discover more about what he knows and what is really going on."

  "Cecelia—"

  "You cannot deny, James, that the most promising information we have yet found is that story Walker brought us this morning about the foreigner who disappeared near Goosepool," I said.

  James made the snorting noise that means he would very much like to deny whatever I have just said, but cannot in all honesty do so.

  "Which we would very likely not have discovered had we not been staying here," I went on. "For I do not believe that it would ever have occurred to either of us to make inquiries about a village with such a name as Goosepool."

  "Not, at any rate, until one of us heard the story of this disappearance," James said.

  "Well, I cannot imagine how we would have heard the story if Walker had not discovered it," I pointed out. "No one has displayed the least inclination to talk to either of us, except for the Webbs, and they will certainly not tell us anything to the purpose if they can help it. And it was Mr. Webb's man who tried to turn the conversation. He can have had no reason to do so unless Mr. Webb told him to. Which must mean that Mr. Webb has some interest in the matter."

  Before James could answer, there was a low rumbling noise from below us. "What on earth is—," James began, and then—

  I do not properly know how to describe what happened next. I imagine that being hit by lightning must feel a bit the same way, if lightning came up from the ground beneath one's feet instead of down from the sky. Or perhaps it was more like being caught in the eruption of a geyser, such as they have in Iceland, except that this was not an eruption of hot water but of uncontrolled magical power. The room shook, knocking over a chair, the washbasin, and both of the night candles.

  The shaking and the magical eruption continued for what seemed hours, though it could not have been more than a few seconds. When it stopped, the curtains were burning merrily, thanks to one of the overturned candles. James immediately grabbed a section of the curtains that was not in flames and pulled them down. "Out!" he snapped over his shoulder as he began stamping out the fire.

  I did not immediately obey, as I was feeling quite dizzy. Having a great quantity of magical power pour through one unexpectedly is not an experience that results in a clear head and a calm ability to behave well in an emergency. James finished with the curtains and grabbed my arm. "Out," he repeated. "If any other candles tipped—"

  I managed to nod and stumble forward. Seeing the state I was in, James did not release my arm but merely shouted for Walker and his man. The four of us made our way down the stairs and out the main door, where we were soon joined by the other residents of the tower. Several of the maids were in strong hysterics, and so was Adella Webb. The fresh air cleared my head, and I was therefore able to assist in removing the stunned and overset persons to a safe distance, while James took charge of making certain everyone had come out of the house and then got up an expedition to see when it might be safe to return.

  The shaking had started several small fires, and none of us got any sleep that night. The gentlemen had some trouble in extinguishing the various blazes, though there was never any danger that the building would go up. The real damage was done by the shaking itself. James reported that one of the upper stairs had come loose from its supports; quite a lot of the windows were broken; and in the dawn light, we could see that much of the brick facing on the old portion of the tower had peeled away, fallen, and shattered, revealing the underlying stonework.

  Mr. Webb seemed quite stunned by the turn of events. I think he must not be much accustomed to dealing with unusual occurrences, for once the fires were out, he actually began to urge us once more to extend our stay—as if having houseguests after such an upset would be quite unexceptionable! James informed him in no uncertain terms that we would be removing to Stockton at once, then advised him to have a builder look at the "settling" before he brought anyone else to stay in his ancestral pile.

  So we are now in Stockton, occupying three rooms and a private parlor at a pleasant little inn near the center of town. I am still not at all sure what caused the upheaval at Haliwar, but I am (for once) altogether in agreement with James as to not remaining there a moment longer, information or no information. I do, however, hope to ride over in a day or two, to see what, if any, effect the eruption had on the ley line. (I shall, of course, pretend it is to reassure myself as to how the Webbs are going on after the unfortunate incident.) I can at least be sure that it was nothing to do with the railway, for the trains do not run after dark, and besides, the railway has been using horses to pull the coal wagons for the last three days, due to some mishap with the steam engine.

  James is occupied in inquiring discreetly about Goosepool and the farm where the foreign gentleman disappeared. I fully expect to have more to tell you on that score in the near future. As soon as we have settled the matter of the surveyor, I
shall try to persuade James to investigate Daniel's cronies. For after reading your letter (which arrived at Haliwar on Saturday, just before all of the excitement), I am more than ever convinced that it was one of them, and not Daniel himself, who was threatening Georgy. Indeed, only Georgy could have been so goose-witted as to leap from reading that note to the conclusion that her husband wished to have her murdered in order to retrieve the settlements he had made on her! I am quite cross with her for not having told us about it from the beginning. If she had, I would not have gone storming off to confront him, and he would very likely not have vanished, or at least, not until after I was able to pry loose whatever information he has. And even if that were only an account of how he came to be threatened and what they wish him to do, it would have provided us with some notion of what we ought to do next.

  Yours,

  Cecy

  22 April 1828

  The Eagle's Nest, Stockton

  (in cipher)

  My dear Thomas,

  Cecelia and I retrieved your letter of the eighteenth from Haliwar this morning. I expect that you've had the dramatic rendition of our escape from that interminable house party in Cecelia's version—there was a bit of shaking and some small fires, which we used as an excuse to depart. I should have been perfectly happy never to see the place again, but Cecelia was sure that the shaking was magical in origin, and wanted to examine the house in daylight and with a bit of magical preparation.

  So we rode out this morning, pausing half a mile short of the house for Cecelia to work her spells. Then we went on, paid our respects to Miss Webb (her brother having taken himself off on some "urgent business" or other), collected the post, admired the progress that had been made on cleaning up the place, and left.

  Two circumstances alone cause me to provide so much detail regarding this boring little excursion. The first is that Cecelia reports several changes in the flow of magic around the house. Previously, the ley line ran strongly north toward the river but disappeared when it reached the gates of Haliwar Tower; the house and grounds had little or no magic associated with them—"stagnant" was the term Cecelia used to describe the feeling. Now, she says, the ley line has dimmed noticeably, and the house and grounds have a decided, though disorganized, sense of magic about them.

  The second matter of note was the curious nature of the damage to the house itself. Haliwar Tower is an odd building to begin with; the tower is a great squat, round, thick-walled thing in the Norman style, though it was built by one of Cromwell's followers in the 1600s. Two modern wings run off on either side, of somewhat later construction, and the tower had been faced in brick, presumably to make the contrast in style less obvious. In a reversal of the usual system, the family and guests are housed in the central tower, while the new wings are devoted to servants' quarters, kitchens, and so on.

  Judging from the commotion on the night of the fires, and from the widespread locations we found smoldering at the time, the disturbance affected the entire building. But in the sober light of day, it was plain that only the central tower had suffered any real damage, apart from that caused by the fires. All of the tower windows were broken; along the wings, the glass was intact. More significantly, the brick facing had crumbled away from the tower, showing some deuced peculiar stonework behind it.

  The tower is only three stories high. The upper floors are built of mortared stone, uncut and irregular but nothing at all out of the way. The ground floor, however, showed three enormous, irregular lumps of granite—single stones at least four feet wide and between eight and twelve feet high—set at even intervals, with the spaces between filled in with stones of a more usual size. I rode around the house, under pretext of inspecting the damage for Miss Webb, and found the rear of the tower to be in much the same condition—broken windows, and enough of the brick peeled off to show four more of these granite rocks embedded in the stonework there.

  I was not able to get a look at the interior of the tower, but I would be surprised indeed if there are not several more of those large stones in the section of the walls hidden by the new wings. Their significance eludes me, but I have sent off an express note to Michael Wrexton in hopes of enlightenment. While I cannot say that either architecture or Cromwellian history is within his usual area of expertise, I have no doubt that the library at the Royal College of Wizards can supply any of his deficiencies.

  Meanwhile, I ride out tomorrow to a village bearing the unfortunate name of Goosepool, following the latest scent of my missing surveyor. There is some rumor of a foreigner disappearing from a farmhouse there, and while it seems unlikely that a railway surveyor would find it preferable to lodge at a farmhouse instead of at an inn in Darlington or Stockton, the timing seems right.

  Are you still afflicted with your superfluous child, or has the lapse of an additional week been enough to discover her appropriate residence? I am desolated to inform you that my familiarity with the term laid couching derives primarily from my father's occasional tirades on the rapacity of my mother's dressmakers, which he was used to punctuate by reading off details from the bills. From that alone, I conclude that one would be well-inlaid indeed to spring for a petticoat adorned with such stitch work.

  Waltham remains among the missing, so far as I am aware. Should he resurface, I shall send him your way at once. In deference to your preference for a calm, well-ordered life, I shall try to warn you of his coming in sufficient time to make your escape before he arrives, but a taste of his wife's temper is the least he merits, after foisting that house party on us.

  Yours,

  James

  22 April 1828

  Skeynes Nursery

  (This letter warranted to be enchanted against the unknown reader by the ever patient and always dutiful T.S.)

  Dear Cecy,

  This will make the third time I have begun this letter. The first time, Edward spilt ink on my opening lines. The second time, I spilt the ink myself. This time, I have taken steps to prevent a recurrence. I write to you from a table by the east window of the nursery, a table free of arrowroot biscuit crumbs and lead soldiers. I write to you whilst the children are having their naps. I write to you with the help of a sadly depleted inkwell. Even if I knocked this one over again, it wouldn't have much left to spill.

  It rained yesterday, and it is raining today, the kind of soaking, cold rain that I am assured is good for the crops but that seems as if it will go on falling day after day after day, forever and ever, amen. I persuade myself this is an excellent thing, for if the weather were fair, it would be even more difficult to keep the children safely indoors. Still, I wish it would stop.

  In truth, I see signs of restiveness amongst the infantry. Edward has squabbled disgracefully with Arthur over sharing his toy soldiers. This morning I heard Eleanor ask Drina if she is under an enchantment that forbids her to speak. Drina held her peace. Of course.

  Yet I had the distinct impression that if Drina is not under an enchantment already, Eleanor would like to see that situation remedied, this time with an enchantment to compel her to speak. I must remember to warn Thomas. This is no time for him to indulge his niece's taste for spell casting. It would be just like Thomas—

  I take up my pen again after a short interruption (a disagreement between Laurence and his last meal, alas). This time I do not write in solitary peace. No, the children are at the table with me, as we all write to you. A fresh ink pot is at hand, so anything can happen. As usual.

  23 April 1828

  Cecy, at last I think we have established a reliable means of communication with young Drina. As we shared the new ink pot peaceably among us, Eleanor asked Drina if she would write to her mother, too. Drina's face lit up, and she seized pen and paper with such joy that I have been castigating myself ever since for not thinking to suggest it sooner.

  Drina did not write to her mother. On the sheet of paper, she carefully formed the words, "If I speak, my mother will be harmed," and turned the paper so Eleanor could read it alou
d.

  "Goodness, who says so?" I demanded.

  It required another dip into the ink pot, but Drina put her pen to paper and wrote, "Mister Scarlet."

  It took time, persistent questioning, and quite a lot of paper, but I now have what I believe to be as much information about Drina as she is willing to give us.

  I also believe I have a full account of Edward's experience and at least a partial one of Drina's. I take great pride in this feat, not least because I managed it despite Thomas's attempts to help.

  You will forgive me, I hope, for forming a halting series of questions and answers into a narrative. I begin with Edward's experience, on the grounds that while it may be less important in the grand scheme of things, it matters more to me.

  What happened to Edward:

  As has been speculated, Edward climbed into the tinker's cart whilst under the misapprehension that it was the most attractive and fascinating mode of conveyance in the world. His mistake was borne in upon him speedily, when the true nature of the wagon reasserted itself a few miles down the road. Edward found himself in a rattletrap of a cart, crowded in among a bale of rags, a roll of mildewed carpeting, and a few stoneware jugs.

  The driver of the vehicle, such a convincing gypsy woman to our eyes, appeared to Edward as a man with ginger hair and a face flushed red as beetroot (he had to have been our Mr. Scarlet) when he discovered his stowaway.

  "I don't believe it," Scarlet said. "Another brat."

  For a moment, Edward was sure that Scarlet would hurl him out of the wagon, but the man relented. With a few muttered words, Scarlet put what I surmise to have been a sleeping spell upon Edward, for he grew drowsy and remembers nothing more of the journey. Edward denies this vigorously and claims that he saw a gnome spinning straw into golden jackstraws, but I believe this must have been a dream.

  Once in Stroud, for that is the next thing Edward remembers at all clearly, Edward was rolled into the carpet and transported from the wagon to the house. Sputtering and indignant, he emerged to find himself locked in an upstairs room, Mr. Scarlet's prisoner.