by Zen Cho
“No, indeed.”
“Good,” said Mr. Stapleton.
Curiously, he felt disappointed, though he had dreaded any other answer. He thought of the bills mounting on his desk, the creditors who rang the door at all hours. Just last week Mrs. Stapleton had gathered up the jewels he had given her, meaning to pawn them, before he had stopped her:
“We are not in such straits yet!” he had said grandly.
He had looked fine to Mrs. Stapleton and himself, but it had all been a lot of foolishness. They were well past the point at which they ought to have sold her jewels. Now, indeed, the sacrifice would scarcely alter their position. What they needed was a fortune—Mr. Hobday’s fortune.
“Very good,” said Mr. Stapleton.
21
The Lady Maria Wythe Academy for the Instruction of Females in Practical Thaumaturgy, England
CLARISSA
CLARISSA HAD HAD a number of reasons for coming to the Sorceress Royal’s Academy, but not least of these had been the desire to have time to herself.
Time and solitude were scarce commodities for the daughter of such a household as the Midsomers’ had become. When Geoffrey had still been in England he had absorbed, as by right, the largest part of the family’s energies and attention. His prospects—thaumaturgical and matrimonial—had been their chief preoccupation.
It had been just like Geoffrey to render all this loving deliberation superfluous by deciding his future in both regards without troubling to consult his family. After he had gone to live in Fairy with his wife, it was expected of Clarissa that she should devote herself wholly to her mother, for whom Geoffrey’s departure was a grievous blow.
Clarissa shuddered at the memory of those long, dreary days—labouring at some futile piece of embroidery while her mother reminisced about Geoffrey, breaking off only to inveigh against the Sorceress Royal for her part in exiling him to Fairyland. Here, at least, Clarissa had been able to play her part with spirit, but even finding fault with Prunella Wythe lost its savour in time. However unscrupulous and immodest Mrs. Wythe was, she was certainly having a better time than the correct Miss Midsomer.
Now that Clarissa had thrown off correctness, swallowed her dignity and begged Mrs. Wythe for a place at the Academy, she was less bored. But it had been impossible for Clarissa to pursue her investigations as she desired, for it turned out that being a magicienne involved an extraordinary amount of work. Clarissa’s days were wholly taken up with lessons—preparing for, teaching and recovering from them—as well as tending to the scholars, who were even more tiresome than Clarissa’s own schoolfellows had been.
She had been at the Academy for almost a fortnight before she was able to attempt what she had come there to do. Zacharias Wythe had taken the scholars out for a lesson in cloud-riding. Henrietta Stapleton was still absent on her mission of mercy to an aunt in whom Clarissa only half-believed, and the Academy was otherwise empty for once. Clarissa did not fear being disturbed for the rest of the day, for Prunella Wythe came to the Academy only infrequently, giving out that she was occupied with the business of her office.
Ludicrous! thought Clarissa as she strode through the silent corridors of the Academy. It still filled her with wonder, and no small measure of indignation, that a penniless chit like Prunella Gentleman should now hold the staff of the Sorcerer Royal—the jewel of English thaumaturgy, coveted by the kingdom’s finest magicians.
The change in Prunella’s circumstances had evidently given her inflated notions of her own consequence. To think that she should dare to lecture Clarissa, as though Clarissa would be overcome by the attentions of such a creature as the Duke of the Navel of the Seas! She was no green girl, to be taken in by the fairy’s attentions. She knew a flirtation with her could only be a passing amusement for such a being.
Still, her cheeks warmed with pride at the thought of him. It was something to be courted by so handsome and charming a personage. It had certainly made Prunella wild with jealousy. It was a pity neither the Duke’s rejection nor Clarissa’s rebuff was likely to teach the Sorceress Royal her place.
That was the nature of the world in these forsaken times. People pushed into places where they did not belong, taking what they had no right to, while those whose birth entitled them to those honours were cast aside.
But Clarissa forgot these vexing reflections as she approached the gallery. It had caused a great deal of talk when the Sorceress Royal had moved the Society’s collection of speaking portraits. There was no illegality of which the Fellows of the Society could complain—the Presiding Committee had agreed to the removal, because the paintings were causing too great a disturbance in the Society—but everyone knew there would have been no disturbance, and no need for the move, if not for Prunella Wythe. It was she to whom the paintings had raised such clamorous objection.
Zacharias Wythe had offered to house the collection—so he could study the magic that animated the portraits, he said—and it had ended up in the Academy, to the outrage of Clarissa’s father.
But perhaps it was for the best, thought Clarissa. The collection had formerly been housed in a part of the Society to which women were not admitted, save for the Sorceress Royal. If the paintings had not come to the Academy, Clarissa might never have had the chance to see them herself.
She looked up at the painting for which she had abased herself to Prunella Wythe.
There had been two Sorcerers Royal named Midsomer, but in truth, only one had been of any importance—the gentleman whose portrait she now studied. (In former days, Sorcerers Royal had not been remarkable for their longevity, and the other Midsomer who had occupied the office had held the staff for only a matter of days before he was struck down by a rival’s curse.)
“Mr. George Midsomer,” she said aloud.
She had intended to draw his attention, but even so she jumped when the painted man stirred, fixing his gaze upon her.
George Midsomer looked remarkably like Clarissa’s brother. Geoffrey had often vexed Clarissa, in his absence as much as his presence. Yet she found the resemblance comforting, though the look George Midsomer swept over her was scarcely friendly.
“I do not believe we have been introduced,” he said coldly.
“Do you need to be?” cackled the neighbouring portrait. “Look at the two of you! Like peas in a pod, you are!”
His voice woke the other paintings. Murmurs and rustlings filled the room as the painted thaumaturges began to stir, but Clarissa Midsomer did not mean to address a crowd, and it was of particular importance that her consultation with her ancestor should not be overheard. She snapped her fingers, and the other paintings fell silent, frozen within their frames.
“Did my colleague speak aright?” said George Midsomer, looking at Clarissa with new intensity. “You are a descendant of my line?”
“Clarissa Midsomer, sir,” said Clarissa, curtseying. “You may be acquainted with my father, Mr. Julian Midsomer. He is a Fellow of the Royal Society of Unnatural Philosophers.”
Her ancestor’s countenance showed no flicker of recognition, nor any increase in warmth.
“If you are a daughter of my line, how comes it that you are performing magic?” said George Midsomer. “Does this father of yours know you are here?”
Clarissa threw her head back. She would not be intimidated. He would understand once all was explained. “Sir, he does. And he . . .” It would be going too far to say Clarissa’s father had approved of her scheme; he had opposed it passionately, only conceding when Clarissa’s mother had dissolved into tears.
“He does not object,” said Clarissa. “He knows my intentions in coming here.”
She reached into her pocket. She had kept the article hidden on her person since the Sorceress Royal’s ball, for she had received a thorough scolding from her parents for wearing it openly that night.
The recollection brought a rush of heat to
her face. It had been reckless of her, but in truth Clarissa had been anxious about the ball. She had been determined that she would not be cast into the shade by little Prunella Wythe, and she had given in to the temptation to show away.
Since then she had exercised strict discretion, however. As she drew out the article now, the rubies that served as the serpent’s eyes caught the light, and the bluish-green stones ornamenting its coils shone richly, striking her again with their extraordinary beauty.
“My brother gave this to me,” she said, holding it up to the painting of George Midsomer. “He had it from a fairy.”
Geoffrey had not of course told Clarissa anything useful about the article. He had said only that it was a talisman he had won from a fairy in a bet:
“He kicked up no end of a fuss, so it must be an object of considerable power,” Geoffrey had said. “It was only when I said Laura would be dismayed to hear that the Queen’s courtiers no longer honoured their debts of honour that he relented.” Geoffrey made no pretence of controlling his wife; from his account, everyone in the Court lived in fear of her, including Geoffrey himself.
“But I don’t trust the fellow so far as I can throw him,” he continued. “If I keep it here, he is bound to take it back by some means. Will you keep it for me? If you offer it to the Sorceress Royal, I should think she will agree to arrange for me to come back to England.”
Not for the first time, Clarissa had been struck by Geoffrey’s wastefulness. He had a wife and familiar esteemed by the Fairy Court; all the wonders and terrors of Fairyland lay open to him. Yet all he did in his brief clandestine visits to his family—arranged by his wife at his insistence—was to bleat of his homesickness, and complain about the privations of his life in the Fairy Court—a Court dozens of thaumaturges had died longing to see! If Clarissa had had his opportunities . . .
But with the ease of long practice, she pushed the thought away, consigning it to darkness. Repining against one’s fate as a female might do for a Prunella Wythe, who had no family, or a Henrietta Stapleton, who had no dignity. It suited Clarissa Midsomer ill.
She did not mean to do as Geoffrey had suggested, however. Surrender a powerful talisman to Prunella Wythe! Why, Prunella was no more to be trusted than any fairy. Clarissa had persuaded her parents that Geoffrey’s proposal would not do. Instead, she would seek guidance from a more reliable source—her ancestor.
“The Sorceress Royal caused my brother to be banished to Fairyland,” she explained. “He desired me to use this to free him from his bondage, and it is for his sake that I came here.”
But George Midsomer hardly glanced at the article.
“If your father believed that cock-and-bull tale, he is a fool!” he sneered. “I saw you enspelling the others to silence. To think that my descendant should be casting cantrips like a village witch!”
“It was only so that we might speak undisturbed,” protested Clarissa. “I meant no disrespect.”
But her ancestor was unmoved.
“If you think I will lend any aid to your misbegotten enterprise, you are mistaken,” said George Midsomer. “Go home and make over the talisman to one worthy of it!”
“But Geoffrey gave it to me,” said Clarissa desperately. “We agreed I should keep it, to avoid suspicion falling on my father. No one would suspect me of possessing a talisman smuggled from the Fairy Court.”
“I don’t wish to hear your excuses. Tell your father to return with this talisman. I will speak with him.”
Clarissa saw her chance slipping through her fingers.
“But he can’t!” she said. “My father opposed the establishment of the Academy and he could never lower himself so far as to ask the Sorceress Royal to allow him to see you. Pray hear me out, sir! We are persuaded the article contains a great magic, if only we can contrive to unlock it . . .”
“You are mistaken there,” said a new voice—a voice that did not belong to any dead thaumaturge. A voice Clarissa knew. She turned, her heart in her throat.
The person who emerged from the shadowy corner of the gallery was tall and elegant, robed in green velvet. His silvery hair shone as he stepped into the light.
“I am afraid your unmannerly ancestor will be no good to you, Miss Midsomer,” said the Duke of the Navel of the Seas. “The properties of your talisman are a carefully guarded secret. No English thaumaturge could tell you how to draw upon its powers.”
“Your—Your Excellency!” stammered Clarissa.
“I suppose your brother did not tell you what that object is called,” said the Duke.
He had a knowing smile on his face—a smile that was kind, even flirtatious. Yet it sent a chill like ice water trickling down Clarissa’s back. Realisation dawned upon her, locking her joints in place with horror.
“I . . .” She cleared her throat. “I did not know.”
“No, of course not,” said the Duke. “It would not have served my purpose if your brother had known that the article I was obliged to surrender to him was the Queen’s Virtu.”
“You stole the Fairy Queen’s amulet,” said Clarissa, clasping her cold hands. The stones of the Virtu scraped against her palm.
“Only because I desired it,” said the Duke. He was no longer smiling. His eyes were searching, but somehow their expression reassured her, as the smile had not. “But I have a confession to make, Miss Midsomer. I did not surrender all of the Virtu to your brother.”
He held out his hand. On his palm was a ruby-eyed snake, crafted out of stones the colour of green hills seen through a blue haze. At one end flicked a curling red tongue; at the other, the coiling body came to an abrupt terminus—for, Clarissa saw now, it was not meant to exist alone, cut off at the tail.
She opened her hand, bringing her talisman to meet the Duke’s. Where the two halves fit together, no join could be seen.
“I believe we can help each other,” said the Duke.
22
Beneath the Palace of the Unseen, Fairyland
MUNA
“THE MAGIC HERE must be making me ill,” said Sakti. She shook her head violently. “For a moment I thought you said I was the Queen’s sister!”
“I did,” said Muna. It was a relief that the words were out, though Sakti and Henrietta both looked at her as though she had lost her wits. She did not blame them. They had not heard the serpent’s drowsy thoughts. They did not know all Muna knew. “You are.”
Muna could not remember when she had last seen Sakti anxious on her behalf. The expression sat awkwardly on Sakti’s face. She touched Muna’s arm.
“Do you feel quite well, kak?” she said. “Some mortals don’t take well to the Unseen Realm. One hears of human magicians who run mad, or pine away . . .”
“Listen, adik. When I was in England, I had a vision—two visions,” Muna corrected herself. “The Sorceress Royal hosted a celebration a few days after I arrived, and while I was waiting to be taken there, I thought I saw you in the halls of the Academy.”
“So your malady began then!” said Sakti. She put a hand on Muna’s forehead. “Do you feel feverish? What else did you see, or hear? Pak Husin heard voices when his brother-in-law cursed him.”
“There are no voices; I am not ill.” Muna removed Sakti’s hand from her forehead, determined to finish her tale. “It was not you I saw. It was Miss Midsomer—I had mistaken her for you, though you look nothing alike. At the time I dismissed my error, but my vision was truer than I knew. I saw you in Clarissa Midsomer, because she wore the Virtu. My second vision came when Miss Stapleton taught us a spell for divining the present—”
“Surely divining the future would be more useful.”
It seemed to Muna that Sakti was being obtuse. “I wished to know where you were,” she said. “Miss Stapleton was so good as to adapt a divination spell for the purpose. I asked the fine ones to show me a vision of you, but they took me into the pa
st, and I saw—Saktimuna!”
She lingered over the syllables, looking expectantly at Sakti, but there was no change in her sister’s expression.
“What,” said Sakti, “is Saktimuna?”
“Oh,” said Muna, deflated—but there was no reason Sakti should know the name, or remember that it was hers. Sakti remembered nothing else, after all. “It is the true name of the True—of the Great Serpent.”
“Yes,” said Henrietta. “Georgiana Without Ruth referred to the Fairy Queen’s sister by that name. It put the Queen in a horrid passion!”
“I am not surprised,” said Sakti, impressed. “The true name of a great spirit is not a thing to fling about carelessly. No wonder the Queen is so afraid of Threlfall, if they dare speak the Great Serpent’s name.”
“Adik, do you remember the spell we found in the English king’s house in Malacca?” said Muna. “When you asked the spirits, Whose magic is this? the first answer they gave was Saktimuna. We thought it was a mistake, but it was the truth. It was only that we did not understand it. The magic in you was Saktimuna’s—because you are what remained of the Great Serpent, after her heart was stolen by the Queen of the Djinns.”
But even this did not convince Sakti. In her doubt she unbent so far as to give Henrietta a look, as much as to say, Can you believe what she is saying?
Henrietta said to Muna gently, as one might speak to a person seized by an ague, “You said you had a vision of this Great Serpent in our class. What did you see?”
“The Serpent was sleeping in the seas around Janda Baik,” said Muna, not looking away from Sakti. “She had been thrown down there when her magic was stolen from her.” She paused, recalling the wounded serpent beneath the waves and the great grievance of which it was only half-conscious. She understood now why its thoughts should have felt so familiar. Who knew Sakti better than Muna? “The Serpent was angry, but too weak to do anything about it. I don’t believe she was properly awake.”
