A Midsummer's Magic

by Mary Chase Comstock

  St. Ives picked up his candle, kissed Hippolyta lightly on the cheek, and turned to go.

  "Half a moment, St. Ives." Hippolyta picked up the jar of colored stones and chose another piece of amber. She held it out to him. "Put this in your pocket. You may have the makings of a wizard, but you do not yet know how to protect yourself."

  He plucked the stone from her hand, then circled her waist with his free arm. "I find it quite agreeable to be worried about. I must see what other sorts of danger I can find."

  Hippolyta's eyes darkened. "Do not jest, St. Ives. I know that, even now, you are not entirely persuaded of the existence of invisible powers, but make no error. This is not a lark."

  He held her close for a moment. "Forgive me, Polly, but you are quite mistaken—I am entirely convinced that something beyond my ken is at work in this house. I see, however, you are unaware that laughter is a man's prime defense. A military camp is wild with it the night before battle. It keeps fear, if not the enemy, at bay. Women, I think, are wiser."

  She rested her head on his shoulder for a moment and leaned into his embrace.

  "Be careful," she whispered.

  St. Ives made his way down the hallway to the stairs, the light of his candle flickering into the deep, silent shadows. From the landing, he could see a sliver of light outlining the library door. Who else was about at this hour? he wondered. Instinctively, he fingered the piece of amber in his pocket and was reminded suddenly of the way in which Lothian had rubbed the onyx fob earlier in the evening. It seemed a strange, perhaps significant, parallel.

  He could hear no sound as he approached, other than the crackle of the fire. How odd it should have been left to burn. Slowly he eased the door open.

  "This seems to be quite a nocturnal household." Lord Lothian ran an indolent gaze over the intruder. He was seated at Hippolyta's desk, books and scrolls piled on either side of him.

  As if by instinct, St. Ives ran his thumb over the piece of amber. "I see you could not sleep, either," he said blandly. "I thought I might find a book of sermons to make me doze."

  A look of disgust passed over Lothian's saturnine features.

  "If there is such a thing about," he sneered, "I shall be most obliged if you will take it out." Then he returned his attention to the volume before him.

  St. Ives quickly scanned the shelves. Even though the fire was burning brightly, the room seemed dimmer than it ought. The marble busts high above each shelf stared down at him in apparent dismay: Jupiter, Juno, Dionysus, Neptune, Minerva… Minerva! St. Ives stole a sidelong look at Lothian. That person was still engaged by his study. Minerva: twelve tea.

  The twelfth shelf under Minerva? he wondered. He strolled casually to it and peered up into the darkness. He counted down to the twelfth shelf. He would need the ladder. What would "tea" mean? A book on tea or its importation? What might that have to do with their dilemma?

  He pulled the ladder from a neighboring section, climbed up and studied the spines. A set of Goethe. He picked the volumes up, one by one. None of them seemed to hold the least clue. Perhaps, he decided, his approach to the conundrum was mistaken. He climbed down and thought for a moment.

  Looking at the shelves again, he counted from the top to the floor. Twenty-six shelves… twenty-six… there were twenty-six letters in the alphabet. Tea? T? He felt excitement course through him. He did a quick count on his fingers. T was the twentieth letter. Perhaps what he was looking for was the twelfth book on the twentieth shelf. Again he counted. This time it would at least be at eye level.

  He held his candle close and counted until he reached the twelfth book. He pulled it from the shelf. It was a small volume covered in scarlet leather tooled in gold. The title read, Magus.

  "Have you found what you came for?" Lothian's voice came from close behind him. St. Ives turned to see the other gentleman eyeing the volume he held with unvarnished curiosity.

  "I have just come across some Milton," St. Ives lied glibly. "Epic poetry is as good a soporific as are sermons, I suppose."

  Lothian's eyes narrowed suspiciously. Without the least apology, he seized the book and inspected it.

  "Paradise Regained?" Lothian snorted in derision. He returned the volume with a shrug of disdain. "Much good may it do you. Good night, then."

  St. Ives released his breath slowly and realized as he did so that he had very nearly pressed the piece of amber through the palm of his hand. If he had not been convinced of its efficacy before, he was now. Something had drawn Lothian to his side; something else had cast a veil over the gentleman's eyes. He had actually mistaken the title of the book.

  Wizard or not, however, Lothian had not the least sense of courtesy, St. Ives decided as he tucked the little volume under his arm. Perhaps it was not a standard by which that brotherhood set great store, but if he were to join their ranks, he would certainly press for a greater degree of civility.

  Fourteen

  Hippolyta paced back and forth in the laboratory. She had intended to turn her energies toward some constructive endeavor, but it seemed her powers of concentration had by now abandoned her entirely. Her skin fairly tingled with apprehension, and yet there was no logical reason for her to be so terrified by the notion of St. Ives's errand to the library. Cool reason, however, was simply no comfort when the powers of darkness were at work.

  Moreover, her fear was mingled with guilt: now she realized quite clearly that she was the one who ought to have gone. She knew the danger, if not rationally, at least in the marrow of her bones. Besides, she knew how to defend herself. If only she had thought of it in time! She imagined St. Ives walking headlong into jeopardy without the least idea what to do, a tiny stone his only shield. She would never forgive herself if anything should happen to him. If only he came back safely, she would…

  Would what? she asked herself coldly. Renounce her cloister?—for that was what it was. An ivory tower. A sanctuary. True, she had inherited this life, but the decision to maintain an illusory world had been her own. She remained isolated, insulated, like a spellbound maiden in an Arthurian romance. She recognized with a sudden clarity of vision that, however comforting an enchanted sleep might be, the time must eventually come for a passing prince to kiss her awake. That seemed to be precisely what had happened.

  But what did her awareness betoken now? She paced about in agitation, finally pausing at the window where the silvery moon loomed in the dark, star-studded sky. She pushed the window open and propped her elbows on the ledge, staring out into the tranquility of the magnificent night. If St. Ives offered for her, would she have him? Would she accept a real marriage and all that it entailed?

  The old fear rose up in her heart with all its ugliness and shame. The marriage act. Childbirth. Pain and humiliation. If only she had never heard of such things! The poet's words sounded tauntingly in her head: "Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise."

  Hippolyta closed her eyes and pressed her fingers to her temples, letting the night air wash over her face. If only she were not so confused. Her heart quickened at the thought of St. Ives. She acknowledged that she welcomed his attentions, and yet that path was strewn with as many thorny brambles as beguiling blossoms. The inevitable outcome must be the very thing she most feared.

  She turned from the window and paced to the table. Perhaps it would be best if she turned her mind to present problems. She picked up the jar of colored stones and poured them into her hand, sifting them nervously, waiting for inspiration. Amethyst, carnelian, amber, and garnet clicked and flashed against each other.

  Suddenly, an odd memory flashed before her. She found herself recalling the day Trevalyen had showed her an invention he had recently acquired. It was called a kaleidoscope. It consisted of a tube, set with mirrors, through which one viewed bits of colored glass. When she looked through it for the first time, she had seen a lovely symmetrical design.

  "Rotate the tube slightly," Trevalyen had instructed her. With a tinkle of glass, the segments of the patte
rn had shifted, creating an entirely new vision comprised of the same elements.

  In her mind's eye, Hippolyta could still see the kaleidoscope and its pretty designs. Suddenly, however, it was not bits of glass she was seeing, but something else altogether. St. Ives's face, loving and passionate. A laughing baby lifted high.

  Revelation came to her with a stunning flash: the marriage act and childbirth. The same elements—but shifted slightly, they could effect joy rather than pain. Fear, an inner voice told her, was merely a way of seeing. So was hope.

  It was so simple! Hippolyta felt herself smiling in every fiber of her being. She was free to fall in love. It was permissible to be in love. She need not guard against it anymore. Only good things would transpire. As soon as all of this unpleasantness with Lothian…

  Hippolyta froze. Lothian seemed a ghastly black pebble in her vision of colored glass. The stones slipped from her hands and clattered to the table. In spite of her lovely vision, there was still an evil in the house, an evil that might stand between her and all she had just embraced, all she now knew she loved.

  Just then, she recognized St. Ives's quick step in the corridor. Feeling as if her heart would burst, she flung herself at the door and threw it open.

  "Polly!" St. Ives exclaimed as he approached. "The most extraordinary thing has just… Why, whatever can the matter be?"

  She tried valiantly to smile, feeling suddenly quite foolish. "It is the merest…" she began unsteadily. "It is the silliest…"

  "Come now," he whispered, taking her hand and closing the door behind them. "Do not say you have been frightened. I should lose heart completely if that were so. You have been so brave."

  Had he responded to her playfully, or even ignored her trepidation, Hippolyta might have maintained a grasp on her equanimity. But the mere sound of his gentle, kind voice released the floodwaters of her heart. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she found herself wracked with sobs.

  "Go ahead and cry for a moment, love," he murmured. She nodded mutely and, clasping her arms about his waist, wept shamelessly into the lapel of his dressing gown for some minutes.

  "I cannot think why I am behaving thus," she essayed at last.

  "There, there, my Polly," he crooned, rocking her gently.

  "I was so happy," she managed, "and then so suddenly wretched."

  He wiped away her tears. "You must tell me all about it."

  Hippolyta shook her head, looking away. Even now, a persistent voice in her heart advised caution. Confessions could come later when her immediate problems had been solved and the horizon was clear for love.

  "Nothing has happened but that I have taken a sudden fright." As she glanced up at him, he raised his eyebrows in question. "I had the most wretched premonition… that we may have but little time to arm ourselves against this evil."

  "I agree we must rally our strength, whatever it may be. But there is hope, Polly. See what I have found." He held up the little book for her inspection.

  "Magus?" she read, blinking back her tears. "Latin for 'wise man,' is it not?"

  "Yes," he said, sliding his arm about her shoulders and drawing her to a chair. " 'Magician' or 'wizard,' more colloquially. However, Polly, you must let me tell you how I happened to come upon it. I am inordinately pleased with myself."

  Seating himself on the arm of her chair, St. Ives quickly related the story of his discovery.

  "St. Ives!" she cried out when he had finished. She took his hand and pressed it to her cheek. "I was right! You might have been harmed!"

  "I own I felt the hairs stand on my neck, but this bit of amber seems a wonder. I believe I shall have all my buttons made of the stuff from here on!"

  "Trust me!" Hippolyta told him sternly. "I shall insist!"

  He kissed her cheek. "You must forgive me if I find hope in small concessions. Do you mean to say you will take charge of my buttons?"

  "Hush, St. Ives! You make my head spin!"

  "Better and better!" he chuckled. "Now, shall we see if our answers lie within these pages?" He handed her the book.

  She made as if to open it, then looked at him, puzzled. "It will not open. Can a book be stuck?"

  "Not that I have ever heard."

  She turned the book about, examining it closely. "It would appear," she said slowly, "that this is not precisely… Why, it is a box!"

  She held it up for him to see. The object, carved quite intricately to show binding and the edges of pages, was indeed a painted wooden box.

  "Extraordinary," he murmured. "I suppose I dare not hope it will merely open like a good box."

  She pulled again at the false cover. A moment later she glanced at him with a wry smile and shook her head. "My Trevalyen seems to have gone to some trouble to keep his secrets—from us as well as the enemy. Why, I cannot even see a seam! And yet," she said, drumming her fingertips on the box, "we are not mistaken. It sounds quite hollow. I shall see what I can do to make this object surrender!"

  "Have you tools about? Something to pry with?"

  Hippolyta pursed her lips and shook her head patiently. "You have forgot that we do not use ordinary tools! Such an approach must very likely end in the destruction of both the box and its contents—and with a nasty explosion, I shouldn't wonder."

  "Whatever is contained here," she continued, "is intended for our eyes alone and Trevalyen will have secured it against mundane assaults. No, we must use more subtle means. Perhaps a countersign, one not commonly used in spells. If only I can think what he might consider appropriate, something he could be certain I would stumble upon."

  St. Ives frowned. "Had you any small jests that might provide a clue?"

  "A great many," she answered with a sigh. "I am afraid it will take hours. Perhaps you had best go on to bed, St. Ives."

  "What? And miss my training? Never! Besides," he continued mischievously, "I am taking the greatest delight in sitting about with you in my night clothes. Impropriety grows more and more delightful."

  "Enough, St. Ives, I cannot think. I am so terribly weary!" She held the little box up and frowned at it. "If only it would please, please just open."

  At that, a crack appeared in the painted cover and the box immediately fell in twain. A folded bit of paper fluttered to her lap. She bit her lower lip and peeked up at St. Ives. Then she smiled guiltily. "I should have remembered. Trevalyen was always wont to fulfill my least desire."

  "An excellent gentleman! So what is this?" he asked, plucking a piece of paper from the now-opened box.

  "A letter? Instructions, perhaps? Heavens, St. Ives! You do not suppose we are to have an easy time of it after all?"

  "Pray, say no more until we discover whether we are to read it standing on our heads whistling, or walking backward in the moonlight balancing snuff boxes on our noses."

  "St. Ives, you are becoming incorrigible."

  "The notion of my being a wizard is immensely liberating, you must know. Who will dare take me to task for sins against propriety?"

  "Until your apprenticeship is completed, you may rest assured that I shall," Hippolyta told him tartly. "Beware lest you suddenly find yourself a cherry tart set before Bertie!"

  St. Ives assumed a look of abject terror. "Forgive me, my dear! Read on."

  Hippolyta broke the seal and released a sigh of relief. "It appears to be entirely readable. Listen:

  'My dear Hippolyta,

  Doubtless you will by this time have discovered your peril, for I have taken pains that you would. I am assuming my old enemy, Lord Lothian, has discovered the ruse I sent him on in the Orient and has made his way once again to Rookeshaven. He will no doubt evince an interest in certain volumes in the library. As long as they are under the protection of this roof, he cannot utilize them, but he must by no means be allowed to carry anything away with him.

  Forgive me for not warning you of the potentiality of this event. It was not at all a certain thing and I did not like to frighten you unnecessarily. I did, however, take certain steps
to prepare for the contingency.

  Do you remember my having told you of my studies with Herr Mesmer? I met him long before our marriage and learned a great deal about the mind and its potential. I must now confess that, without your permission, I took the liberty of planting several impressions and commands in your mind.

  The first of these you will recognize as the sudden feeling of dread you will have experienced on Lothians arrival. He can be quite a charming gentleman and, trusting as you are, I did not like to think of you falling under his spell. I also included the suggestion that, on his arrival, you would remember the scrolls I keep in the laboratory for safekeeping.

  What comes next is more complex, for it required I reveal my knowledge of the existence of one Julian St. Ives. I have known of his abilities almost since his birth—the nativity of a major wizard does not go unremarked in my circles, you must know.

  I kept a close eye on his upbringing, watched him develop into a very good sort of young man (entirely unaware of his own prowess, I might add) and had, at one time, considered making him my apprentice. However, Lothian's strength was growing, and I did not like to draw his attention thither. I only took care to see that Julian would be drawn to Rookeshaven and once there, I felt certain the magic within these walls would be sufficient to keep him there.

  I imagine you are now thinking, "what of me?" That I sacrificed you. There was some risk, but only a very slight one. It will never occur to Lothian you are other than a rich old man's whim. Certainly, your power and intelligence (which are formidable, you know) will elude him entirely.

  You have, by now, 'handed Julian the flower.' All that remains for me to say is something that has come to me quite profoundly in a dream tonight: 'Trust to the children and all will be well' I do not know what it means, only that you may rely on it. If there are any children about, do not interfere with their wishes.

  I am certain all shall be well. Now go to bed, for I feel certain it is very late. Have a cup of chocolate for me, my love,