Kip & Shadow

by David Pietrandrea

  Shadow peered over the spine of his book, his interest and short attention span having moved on to the contents of the letter. Kip smiled without looking up. He mimed reading it silently, his eyebrows raising and lowering with each sentence.

  “Please,” Shadow whispered, now putting the book on the table. “Read it out loud. Read it to Shadow.”

  “Very well,” Kip said.

  Spidery letters filled the page, all legibility nearly replaced by style. He read the words aloud.

  Master of Alchemy House,

  It seems that time speeds ever-on, and that the circle of our world closes in. The Great Houses of London are but a shadow (Shadow smiled here) of what they once were. Perhaps it is the way of things, the future moves with a dizzying speed and the least of us must hold on tightly or be washed away.

  Please forgive a ponderous old man. It is due to my rather grim realizations that I extend this invitation. We must celebrate while we can and hold close those that we value, lest they not feel that value in full.

  Wishing you a healthier disposition than I, at present, and hoping for your availability this Saturday: 21 April, 7pm. Join me, and guests, for a night of conversation, exquisite food, and perhaps some magic.

  Yours truly,

  Lord Francis Blackmoor, Magic House

  P.S. - You will find the evening’s menu enclosed.

  Kip lowered the letter to the table. He’d only been to Magic House twice since completing his apprenticeship as an alchemist. He found it to be an unknowable place, mysteries kept from all, save Lord Blackmoor. Secrets hidden beneath a set of ancient rules.

  And when had they been set? Nearly with the founding of London itself. Magic House was the first house, shrouded in the mysteries of its time. It had existed in some form or another since before the Romans had invaded Britannia. Kip had always loved the imagery, ancient people harnessing powers they didn’t understand.

  Shadow seemed to have less thought on the matter.

  “Can Shadow go?” he asked.

  “I don’t see why not. Do you want to go?”

  In a flash of movement he disappeared, contracting to almost nothing. The hint of his form rippled along the side of the table, then sprang to life again, inches from Kip’s face. The creature looked deep into his eyes.

  “Yes.”

  Kip smiled. “I’m sure you’ll charm the party.”

  Shadow reached for the envelope and pulled out the card with the dinner menu. He scanned it with his blue-orb eyes.

  “‘Ballotines de Canard à la Cumberland.’ What is it?”

  “I’m not sure what that is. Duck…something.”

  “Good though?”

  “Probably.”

  “Does Kip know two peach pits can kill you?” Shadow inquired, dancing to a new topic.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Two crushed-up peach pits have enough cyanide to kill a man. It’s powdered death!”

  Kip didn’t know that it would only take such a small quantity, but appreciated the random facts that Shadow offered.

  His friend sighed.

  “Shadow hopes Lord Blackmoor doesn’t serve peaches.”

  5

  Three luminaries, that’s what Lord Blackmoor had called them.

  Three masters of intellectual thought and accomplishment in London, not to be trifled with. Somehow Kip had been thrust into that category, no matter if he had earned it or not. He looked across the sitting room with quiet wonder at the two guests and their host.

  Dr. Stephen Fairfield of the Science Academy, a hefty man as solid as a tree trunk. Wherever he planted his feet he gave the appearance that he was meant to be there, carving out his place in the world with each step. He sat now in a high-backed armchair, lighting a chestnut pipe. Kip watched the glow through Fairfield’s fingers as he cradled the flame. He coaxed wisps of smoke from the pipe, twisting and spinning towards the ceiling.

  Shadow watched silently, the glow from the fireplace danced in his eyes. He preferred to sit at Kip’s feet, curled up in a tight ball, his tail wrapped around a chair leg.

  Across from Dr. Fairfield sat Amelia Britten, a quiet and mousy woman who constantly moved her hands, as if she were knitting with invisible yarn. She was a reformed Mother Superior and now a noted spiritualist, her position making her something of a celebrity. The whispered gossip, if one had cared to listen, was that she was on call to the Royal Family.

  And then Lord Francis Blackmoor himself, Master of Magic House.

  No one was more fitted to his position. He inhabited the title of ‘Lord’ as if he’d had it since birth, growing into it more fully with each year. There was a theatricality about him. Kip saw it in his public appearances and now, in a private setting. His every move was deliberate; graceful gestures flowing into the perfect joke or comment.

  He had a long pale face with two dark pinpoint eyes. His black hair rose to fine points on his head, the only thing on his body that wasn’t tamed. A shock of white cut through the dark strands, rising from his forehead into a graceful curl.

  The ‘luminaries’ exchanged introductions and pleasantries before the conversation turned to more serious matters.

  Lord Blackmoor took a long sip of his aperitif and then spoke.

  “You’ve read the news today, I assume? Parliament thinks they have a right to oversee Magic House.”

  “I think we’re all shocked that you’d be opposed to that,” Fairfield said with a smile.

  “I don’t expect the Science Academy to understand such things. Half your work you do for the state, racing ahead with notions and inventions no matter how dangerous they might be. I, for one, don’t think some up-jumped locals should have the right to meddle.

  “If they wish to combine the Houses, how long before they whittle them down to nothing? A cut here, a slice there, until we’re nothing more than carnival acts. Oversight and then dismantling. Dark House has slipped from their grasp, but Alchemy and Magic House remain.”

  Dark House.

  It was a place of mystery, like an unearthed artifact that had no story around it, no way to find its place in London’s history.

  Kip had only been a child when Dark House disappeared. It was the sister to Magic House, sitting on the property behind it; a black structure surrounded by trees and protected by a wrought-iron fence. Sharp gables had peeked above the tree-line, eyes of dark glass.

  Then it had vanished.

  Some said it had a mind of its own. Others said it was controlled in some manner.

  But, like everything, the talk died down over time, leaving just an empty lot and the black trees.

  Amelia Britten fidgeted as Blackmoor and Fairfield spoke, waiting for the right moment to interject.

  “Don’t fight, gentlemen. The night is young and there’s a new moon. It’s a perilous time with Saturn in retrograde.”

  Blackmoor let the debate drop.

  “Is it true you’ll be leaving us soon, Amelia? Leaving London?”

  She smiled.

  “A vacation is long overdue, I’m afraid. I’ve got a granddaughter waiting for me in Somerset and need to see some open and green spaces. This city is so close.”

  “Speaking of, we all heard about your little vacation to the zoo, Master Kip.” Blackmoor said.

  Kip wished he was anywhere but here. The sound of the crackling fire kept trying to interject, popping and sighing as if it could join the conversation. He wished it could.

  “It was nothing.” he said, finally.

  “Surely not!” Fairfield burst. “The paper mentioned a spectral wolf. Surely not nothing! Perhaps you could give us a demonstration?”

  “So much talent from one so young,” Britten said with a wink. “Yes, a demonstration!”

  Kip had brought his green bag, in case Blackmoor requested just such a thing. Seeing the company, he hoped not, preferring to observe instead. He had never been a showman, he’d never charmed a crowd or embellished his abilities. What was the point in being
false? Surely there was enough of that in the world.

  Enos had never been false.

  Kip pinched his thigh to stop the flood of thoughts that tried to break free. He felt Shadow’s tail brush against his ankle.

  “Perhaps.”

  As if to save him any embarrassment, Lord Blackmoor clapped his long hands together.

  “I do believe dinner is ready. Shall we pass through?”

  The dining room was a large oval, rich with wood-paneling, starting at the baseboards with polished oak, then turning to bookshelves a quarter of the way up the wall. They loomed over them, packed with their secrets.

  The ceiling was an intricate window of stained-glass that took the shape of a coat of arms, the seal of Magic House; the manticores forever locked in battle. Moonlight streamed through the glass, illuminating each panel.

  As irregular as it was, dinner waited for them on the table. Kip was sure he’d caught the hurried movements of a servant from behind a wall, fleeing the scene down some secret passageway.

  Rather than traditional courses, the entire meal had been laid out at once. An entrée sat at each place setting, steam rising from seared meat and stewed vegetables. An intricate metal Plateau de Délices filled the center of the table, its curling metal rods each ending in a flat platter-shaped disk. Balanced on each of these was a bowl or plate filled with some new delight.

  Green turtle soup.

  Ballotines de Canard à la Cumberland.

  Braised ox-tongue and spinach.

  Seakale and butter sauce.

  And the entrée of Boeuf braise à la Hussarde.

  The dinner started in quiet awe as the guests helped themselves to the variety of dishes. Kip had never tasted anything so good. He wondered if magic had lent a hand in the kitchen. The hot dishes never seemed to lose their temperature, maintaining precisely the right warmth. The champagne stayed chilled in its flute, a slight frost etched on the glass.

  Lord Blackmoor mostly watched his guests, a bemused smile on his face, occasionally catching Kip’s eye as if there was some shared secret between them.

  After an hour, Blackmoor rested his knife and fork on his plate, dabbed at his mouth, and addressed the group.

  “You’ve all indulged an old man and listened to me prattle on, surely a wearying enterprise. For that, I thank you.”

  “Young in spirit, Francis!” Fairfield protested. “Young in spirit.”

  Blackmoor continued.

  “But the point must be gotten to, and so the point I will get to.”

  He paused, Kip felt, for dramatic effect.

  “There is a third wave coming, neither magic nor alchemy. You can feel the impatience, the fatigue, that surrounds our fine arts, as if there were more to discover, or more that we could offer.

  “I believe Science is the cold evolution that approaches; the mere observation of the objective world, as if that could hold all the answers. This new discipline will dissect the world, but without any grace, without wonder.”

  Mr. Fairfield let out small clucking sound to note his displeasure.

  “Now, Francis, certainly you don’t believe such things? Every century has known its heretics. Why, Magic, the discipline that you most love, was the most maligned of all the arts. Would you burn us ‘scientists’ at the stake? The heretic become the norm over time. Perhaps we should shave our heads and repent.”

  With that Fairfield laughed and popped a grape into his mouth. Kip thought he could hear it crushed between his teeth.

  “Is it a competition, Francis?” Britten asked. “Aren’t we all striving towards the same goal? Why focus on the daily push and pull of the latest argument? I study the world that is just around the bend, just beyond our sight. You both do the same, after a manner.”

  Blackmoor scoffed. “Your work can’t provide concrete answers. Spiritualism is a symptom of the new world; a return to nostalgia because of fear. It may comfort widows and widowers but what is its greater purpose? How much can we learn from a ghost, a shade, that haunts a world that’s done with them?”

  “Careful, Francis. Only old men fear the new.” Fairfield said.

  “I share my concern with you in particular, Stephen,” Blackmoor said. “You once had a foot in both worlds, but, I fear, have jumped into the enemy’s camp with your usual stubbornness.”

  “Yes, but how gingerly I jumped!”

  The room tittered with light laughter. Kip looked down at Shadow who was now curled under his chair, either asleep or more interested in the view of everyone’s feet.

  “Your craft has its dangers, Francis,” Fairfield continued. “Was it not a mere ten years ago that Dark House was finally shuttered, the twin to Magic House? We still have no accounting of what went on behind its walls. Why, its very form is now hidden from us, nothing but an empty lot adjacent to this residence. They say if you stare at the empty space at night, the stars bend, obscured by some shape that still resides there.”

  “Stuff and nonsense, surely,” Lord Blackwell laughed. “Again the bias towards the magical arts. Dark House is gone, yes. You can look for the sinister, my good man, but you’ll not find it.”

  Kip, too, had stared up at the empty space behind Magic House and thought he’d seen the very effect Fairfield mentioned. He’d even trained the Sulfur Glass on it once but with no result. It was simply an open lot now, protected by a rod-iron fence. The trees along its edges had moved closer, taking back the space with new growth.

  “Don’t damn the man because of his neighbor,” Britten said. “Dark House is defunct and its mission still unknown, but to imply Lord Blackwell is somehow connected to it is…uncharitable. Stephen, would we judge you because of past actions of the Science Academy? I seem to remember the hybrid tests of 1872. Most unflattering.”

  Fairfield scoffed, taking a swig of wine. “The Science Academy is doing things unparalleled in history. Widening our gaze, we’re looking out into the universe itself. Aren’t there enough wonders in the physical world without all this faffing about? We’ve observed evidence of heavenly bodies of such immensity that light can’t escape. They theorize that there are particles that can be in two places at once, or here and then across the universe in an instant. It challenges everything we know of our existence. Surely something so fascinating yet observable has more weight than ghosts and magic.”

  Britten pushed on. “You know my view, gentlemen. A spiritualist seeks no answers on this plane, but knows they’re hidden from us, accessed only by the lucky few.”

  “Such as yourself?” Fairfield offered.

  “Indeed. But I see no great difference between us. Do we not all seek the same goal? Truth?”

  This caused another eruption, as everyone talked over one another, violently debating the point. Kip didn’t see the purpose in such debates. He scanned the room, remaining silent, smiling politely when necessary, or laughing falsely so as not to be rude. His mind strayed back to his well at Alchemy House. He could almost see it, feel it; the hard cold stone, the damp chilled air.

  “What does Master Kip think?” Blackmoor said, breaking Kip’s daydream.

  He could feel Shadow stir under the table.

  “What do I think?” Kip asked, wondering what the answer was. “I think it’s largely academic, isn’t it?”

  More tittering and dramatic gasps.

  “I mean, surely it is,” Kip continued. “There’s objective and subjective truth, and there’s shared subjective truth.”

  “Shared subjective truth?”

  “Well, yes. Everything you see before us is a shared construct.” Kip motioned to Lord Blackmoor. “You’re only the master of Magic House because society has agreed that you are.” He picked up his dessert spoon. “This spoon is laid horizontally above the plate because we’ve agreed that that’s where cultured well-mannered people put it. London itself only runs because of a shared dream of reality. Laws, money, class, judgement, it all springs from a fever dream of reality.”

  Silence.

 
; “I didn’t realize Alchemists were nihilists as well.”

  Kip flushed. “Is it nihilism to say that we have made the world we live in, for better or worse? We’ve decided what’s right, what’s ‘normal,’ what power is…what love is.”

  The well again. It called to him, saying: retreat from this and return to me. Put aside these petty debates and wasted hours. Humanity will wage these debates without you, forever. He wanted to hear the drums again, those awful drums.

  “Then what is your bird’s eye view of it all?” Fairfield asked. “What does it all mean?”

  Kip continued.

  “I simply wonder if man’s path is towards enlightenment, or the other way. The soul and spirit of man are bound to the body. The corporeal form is a blockage. If we’re going to become what we were meant to be, we must be purified.”

  But the words that had once sounded so rich in his ears, felt shallow, rehearsed. Was he living by any of these principles? If anyone had been purified, it was Enos, his essence scattered by death.

  Blackmoor spoke, “the alchemic concept that by destroying matter, you draw out its soul.”

  “Stuff and nonsense, respectfully,” Fairfield snapped.

  “Everything is moving towards perfection,” Kip said. “Whether it’s minerals in the ground, coal becoming a diamond, a body revealing its essence.

  “Iteration and perfection, there’s a crossover there. Iteration is the closest thing to perfection before its iterated upon once again. The target is always moving.”

  “Precocious youth, isn’t he?” Britten said.

  “Precocious indeed,” Blackmoor said, not unkindly. “Master Kip, perhaps you could explain the overarching truth of your studies, the purpose?”

  Kip hadn’t come here to share, but he felt the sudden need to speak. All his tinkering in the shadows, all his waiting, all those grand ideas that no one got to hear. Blackmoor had given him the slightest nudge, but it was all he needed.