by R. L. King
Stone swallowed. “I…see.”
“Also, as you might have expected,” Atthill continued, glancing at another sheet, “Mr. Desmond has bequeathed you the entirety of his collection of magical items, including his libraries, research, and objects. Some of these are located at the London house, so you’ll have no need to arrange to move them unless you should desire it. The remainder, and the bulk of the collection, is located at Caventhorne. Unlike the mundane document, which still requires more administration before the bequests can be distributed, you are free to claim the magical bequests at any time you wish.”
Stone nodded, and took another sip of his water. “I—thought he might do that,” he said. Still, the enormity of what he’d learned today weighed heavily on him. Not only had Desmond left him a fortune in money and real estate, his master had also given him arguably a larger fortune’s worth of magical property, and administrative control over what looked to be a vast undertaking to shift Caventhorne’s focus from a private residence to some kind of magical resource center. He suddenly remembered the discussion he’d had with Imogen a few weeks ago, shortly after Desmond’s death. “Everything’s going to change now, isn’t it?” she’d asked him.
“Probably,” he’d told her then.
And now it was all changing again.
He let his breath out slowly. “Right, then,” he said, voice a little shaky. “This is…quite a lot to digest. Please forgive me.”
“Of course, Dr. Stone.” Atthill’s tone was calm, comforting. “But—we’re not finished yet. There’s still the matter of the other items.”
Stone had nearly forgotten about the bulky envelope and the key. “Oh. Right.”
Atthill pulled the two items from the box and put them on his desk. He indicated the envelope, turning it over to show Stone an elaborate sigil on the back, overlapping the area where the flap was sealed. “He has instructed that this be given to you, and only you, at the time of his death, and that you’re to open it in private.”
Stone took it, studying it with magical sight. The sigil was a kind of mystical lock—simpler in design but even more powerful than the one on the box. It was designed to allow only the recipient to open it, and despite the envelope’s apparent construction of nothing but heavy paper, he knew it would take a mage of Desmond’s caliber to even attempt to get through it. He felt the object within, and was surprised that it seemed not to be a stack of papers, but rather something stiffer. Possibly a book of some kind. “What about the key?”
“I’ve no idea what that is, Dr. Stone,” Atthill said apologetically. “Mr. Desmond specified that it too was to be given to you. Perhaps something in the envelope will reveal more?”
“Perhaps so…” Stone drained the rest of the water, set the glass down, and carefully put the large envelope and the key in his briefcase along with his copy of the mundane will.
Atthill unfolded the parchment and offered Stone a sheaf of pages from the back. “He’s made two copies—one will remain at our offices, and the other is for you.”
Stone was beginning to feel he was in a dream. Any moment now he’d wake up back in California, Raider curled against his neck, and none of this would have happened. Most people, he supposed, would be overwhelmed with gratitude and happiness at being left such an immense bequest, even while they grieved the loss of the benefactor.
Stone felt nothing but numb. He was grateful, certainly, to Desmond for holding him in such high esteem to remember him so generously, but his mind kept returning to the sight of his master’s lifeless body, and the magnitude of the loss to the magical community. He didn’t want a fortune—not if it meant all this grief, and the endless replaying of the distraught looks on Imogen’s and Kerrick’s faces when he’d revealed the news to them. He would have given all of it up in an instant for the chance to go back in time and have a chance to prevent Desmond’s death.
He stood, and reached across the desk to shake Atthill’s hand. “Thank you, Mr. Atthill. I suspect I’ll be in touch soon with any questions I might have after I’ve had time to process all of this.”
“Of course, Dr. Stone. Feel free to contact me whenever you wish.”
Stone barely remembered taking the elevator downstairs. His brain was still in a fog, his thoughts disjointed. Right now, all he wanted to do was go back home—either to Surrey or to California—and examine the contents of the sealed envelope. But he’d already agreed to have dinner with Imogen tonight, and he supposed he needed to talk to somebody about all of this before it overwhelmed him. He paused in the lobby and called her on his mobile phone.
“Alastair—it’s good to hear from you,” she said. “Did you…speak with Mr. Atthill?”
“Yes. Is that dinner invitation still open?”
“Of course. Clifford has some business tonight, so it will be just the two of us. I thought we’d eat in, if that’s all right. Come by whenever you like.” She paused. “Are you…all right, Alastair?”
“I’ll let you know,” he said, aware of how strange his voice sounded. “I’ll see you soon.”
As the cab picked its way through the steady rain and hellish London traffic on the way to Imogen’s place, Stone pulled out his copy of Desmond’s mundane will and flipped through it. He skipped all the pages having to do with foundations, charitable trusts, and educational bequests, focusing instead on the individual gifts.
As Atthill had said, Desmond had left the bulk of his estate to Imogen, set up in various trust funds that would ensure she and any children she might have would spend the rest of their lives in wealth and luxury. The second biggest of the individual bequests was to himself, and he skipped over that part as well.
After his section followed a series of others, naming various other beneficiaries. Stone didn’t recognize all of the names, of course—he hadn’t met many of Desmond’s friends and associates—but he noticed immediately that every member of his staff, past and present, had been well taken care of. Kerrick’s monetary bequest, for example, was nearly as large as Stone’s—the man would certainly have no more need to remain on staff once the disbursements were made. Stone continued skimming the list, noting smaller gifts to names he hadn’t heard since his apprentice days, staff members who’d long since left Desmond’s employ and moved on to other endeavors.
Even Selby, the former assistant estate steward whose tragic mistake had nearly gotten everyone at Caventhorne killed, had not been forgotten. Desmond had left him a small property in Salisbury, and enough money to allow him to live comfortably, if not richly, for the rest of his days.
Once again, sudden grief sliced through Stone as the black cab pulled up in front of Imogen’s house in Knightsbridge. William Desmond might have been a hidebound, unyielding traditionalist, but his regard and loyalty for those he cared for—and who cared for him—was undeniable. Stone put the stack of papers back in his briefcase, got out, and trudged up the steps to the front door.
Imogen was waiting, and pulled him into a hug. She took him into a small sitting room and got him a drink, then took a seat next to him.
“It all must have been fairly overwhelming for you, wasn’t it?” she asked softly.
“A bit,” he admitted. “You’ve seen your father’s will, then?”
She nodded. “The other day, and I’ve looked through it since. I’m so happy that the London house is going to you. I did want it to stay in the family, even though I couldn’t take it myself.”
He glanced sharply up at her, wondering if she was even aware of what she’d said.
She squeezed his shoulder, “Oh, don’t. You know Dad always considered you family.”
He didn’t reply, staring down at his hands in his lap.
“And Caventhorne,” she continued. “What happened there? Dad didn’t go into much detail that I could see, but Mr. Atthill implied there might be another will covering his magical properties.”
&nb
sp; “There is. He’s left me in charge of the place. He wants it turned into some sort of—magical resource center, meeting hall, ritual space—and he wants me to administer it.”
“Really?” She stared at him. “Does that mean you’ll be moving back to England?”
“No.” He’d thought about it on the way over, considering the possibility, but dismissed it. He was happy in California. He liked his job at the University, he liked the area, and he’d made a home for himself there over the last ten years.
“Oh. Well…what, then?”
He didn’t miss the disappointment that flitted across her face. “He’s specified that I can delegate the tasks. I think I’ve got some people in mind who might be just right for the job.” He sipped his drink.
She nodded. “Well…that’s good, then. I suppose that would be a good use for Caventhorne. I had wondered what he’d planned for it. At least we’ll be seeing more of you while you handle the delegation, right?”
“I expect so.” He glanced around. “Is Kerrick here?”
“No. He’s up at Caventhorne.”
“I assume he’s seen the will.”
“Yes.” She shook her head in amazement. “Alastair, he doesn’t want to leave.”
He stared. “What?”
“You should have seen him when I asked him what he planned to do now that he didn’t have to work any longer. I felt terrible—as if I’d offended him.”
“He wants to stay on?”
“He refuses to leave. He told me I’d have to sack him to get rid of him—and of course I’d never do that. He’s such a dear, dear man, Alastair. Dad couldn’t have had a more loyal friend—aside from you, of course.”
“Oh, I’d say Kerrick was probably a far better friend to your father than I was.” He shook his head. Once again, he shouldn’t have been surprised. Being a vital part of Desmond’s staff was as integral to Kerrick’s well-being as breathing; why would a mere fortune change that? “What about the rest of the staff?”
“Some of them are leaving, but surprisingly few. Mostly the newer ones—those with smaller bequests. A couple of the older ones have decided to retire, but have offered to stay on if they’re needed.”
He took her hand. “You can worry about it later. This doesn’t all have to be done now.”
“No, I suppose not.” She sipped her drink and looked out the window into the rainy darkness. “If you don’t mind my asking, what was in Dad’s magical will?”
Stone shrugged. “I can show it to you, if you like. He’s left me everything, basically. All his books, research…” He indicated the briefcase at his feet. “And something in a magically sealed envelope, that he wants me to look at in private. It feels like some sort of book. You don’t know what it might be, do you?”
“No…he never mentioned anything like that.”
He didn’t bring up the key—he felt he should keep that to himself until he knew its purpose. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s just have a good dinner and a nice chat. I’m still processing all of this, and I’d like to put it out of my mind for a while, if that’s all right with you.”
She smiled. “Of course. It’s just good to see you again, for whatever reason.”
To Stone’s surprise, they did manage to keep the dinner conversation light, avoiding any more talk of wills and bequests and future plans. Stone kept expecting Imogen to bring up Verity again, but she didn’t, to his relief. By the time they finished their after-dinner drinks and lounged contentedly in their chairs, quite a bit of Stone’s tension had evaporated. Imogen, as usual, was good at that.
Still, he couldn’t stop thinking about the book in its sealed package, nestled in his briefcase. His mind kept returning to it throughout the meal, his curiosity about what it might contain refusing to leave him alone.
Finally, even Imogen noticed. “You seem…distracted. Is something wrong?”
He couldn’t lie to her. “No…not really. But I do want to take a look at the book or whatever your father’s left me before I head back to California. Do you mind if we cut this a bit short? I promise, I’ll come back again soon—I’ll even take you and Clifford out somewhere posh and we can talk all night if you like.”
She laughed. “I’d rather go to some disreputable place with incredible food. But it’s all right—I know you’ve never been any good at containing that curiosity of yours.”
She rang for one of the staff, who brought Stone’s overcoat and umbrella and called for a cab, then departed. In the foyer, she hugged him again, resting her head on his shoulder. “I hope everything works out as you expect it to. I won’t ask you to tell me what’s in the package, but if you want to—”
“Let me see what it is first,” he said, returning the hug. It felt good to hold her in his arms again. “It’s probably some magical thing that would bore you senseless.”
“Probably,” she agreed. “Ah—cab’s here.” She kissed him and straightened his overcoat lapels. “I’ll see you again soon, then.”
Stone didn’t bother taking the train to Holmbury, but instead took the cab all the way there. He called Aubrey on the way and told him he was coming, then spent the rest of the trip slumped against the side window, his briefcase between his feet, trying to use meditation techniques to calm his mind from the day’s events.
He wasn’t very successful. By the time the cab pulled up in front of the house and he sent the driver off with a substantial tip, he was only marginally less stressed than he’d been when he’d left Atthill’s office.
Aubrey met him just inside as he swept in, and took his coat. “Is everything all right, sir? I didn’t even realize you were in England until you rang earlier.”
“Didn’t expect to be here this long.” He kept moving, forcing the caretaker to follow along behind him to keep up. “I was just here to find out the details of Desmond’s will, but it turns out there’s a bit more to it than that.” He reminded himself that he’d need to call the University as soon as it was morning in California and tell them he’d be gone at least another day. He doubted he’d sleep tonight, regardless of the contents of the sealed envelope.
“Oh?” Aubrey hurried to catch up. “If you don’t mind my asking, what did you find out?”
“That you’ll be getting a substantial pay rise, and likely I’ll be sending quite a bit more money to fix this place up in the future.” Stone stopped and turned. “Listen, Aubrey—I’ve got something I need to do, so I’ll be in the study. I’ve no idea how long it will take, so don’t wait for me. I’ll talk to you in the morning, all right?”
Aubrey had been staring at him in shock at his initial words, but quickly recovered. “Yes, sir. Of course. Will you be wanting coffee?”
“I’ll make my own if I do. Go on. No point in your staying up.”
Clearly reluctant to leave, Aubrey regarded Stone for several moments before finally nodding. “Yes, sir. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Stone waited until he was gone, then headed immediately to the study, pulled the package and the key from his briefcase, and laid both of them on his desk. He didn’t allow himself to speculate about what they might mean—it was pointless. Instead, he shifted to magical sight to observe the sigil traced on the envelope, then directed a bit of power at it. Keying magic to a particular mage’s “signature” was a complex and difficult undertaking, requiring the original caster to be intimately familiar with the recipient and the nuances of his or her style, but Desmond had worked with Stone enough over the years that his old apprentice would probably present the least challenge of anyone for such an undertaking.
Stone placed his hand over the sigil and concentrated. After a moment, the surface beneath his palm thrummed with energy, warming until it was just shy of uncomfortable. The sigil glowed, sending up shafts of light between his fingers. A second or two later, the light, the heat, and the thrumming all faded. When Stone lifte
d his hand, the sigil was gone as if it had never existed.
Heart thudding with anticipation, he pulled the flap free and opened the envelope. What could Desmond have left him that was so important it needed to be called out separately and viewed in private? Some new magical technique, perhaps? Stone’s mind went back to the research he’d seen on Desmond’s desk at the time of his death. Was it possible that he had somehow cracked the secret of short-range teleportation?
He slid his hand in and pulled out the envelope’s contents. As he’d expected, it was a book—a very old book, in fact. Leather-bound and slim, it bore no decoration on its cover. In fact, it looked more than anything like some kind of journal. Stone shifted to magical sight, but to his surprise no trace of magic lingered around the book. Even the traces around the envelope had vanished now that he’d successfully neutralized the sigil.
Slowly, Stone opened the book. Just inside the front cover was a single folded sheet of fine linen paper, with a single word written on it in Desmond’s handwriting: Alastair. His hands shook a little as he unfolded the page and stared at the contents.
Alastair,
If you have received this volume, then I have died. I have instructed my solicitor to give it to you only on such an occasion. I hope it finds you well.
I have spent many difficult hours over many months in deliberation regarding whether I should give this information to you at all. As I am sure you know, I am not given to such deliberation, preferring prompt actions and decisions—but this case is, as I hope you will understand when you read the contents of this volume, an exception. My uncertainty focused mainly on whether anything is to be gained from revealing this information to you. Occurring as they have in the distant past, the events I describe are perhaps best left buried and forgotten. I was tempted several times to simply burn the document and be done with it.