For the first time since entering his office, Lily felt a faint smile creep over her face. He wasn’t laughing, and the eagerness in his eyes reminded her of her little brother, Jamie. “Don’t get too excited,” she cautioned as she reached into her bag and pulled out her eduba. “I don’t have the originals, only copies, so we can’t verify their authenticity by dating the materials. But maybe they’ll make more sense to you than they did to me.”
His face fell momentarily when she mentioned her lack of originals, but it lit up again at the sight of her eduba. “That’s a beautiful book you have there. An eduba, I assume? My family never had one, at least not one that survived. I made my own of course, for archiving, but it’s hard to use regularly since I have to use my computer to interface with the rest of the library system.”
He watched with interest as she opened it and called forth the relevant pages: John Faust’s translation of Morgan’s journal as well as the pictures they’d taken of the tome. She’d kept the original pictures, of course, transferring them onto a computer drive that was regularly backed up. But it was easier to carry around her eduba than a computer. Handing the volume to Cyril and showing him the relevant index, she sat back and let him peruse the material.
She’d read her father’s translation herself, of course. She just didn’t know what to make of it. The journal was written in very indirect and obscure language, as if Morgan was being obtuse on purpose just to frustrate her reader. Or to keep her secrets hidden, one or the other.
As far as Lily could tell, the journal dealt entirely with the latter part of Morgan’s life, after Arthur had ceased being king. According to legend, the king was wounded in a great battle with a rival to the throne and was taken to Avalon by Morgan to be healed. The journal seemed to pick up after Morgan had already been in Avalon for some time. It mostly ranted about some kind of council that kept her from what she claimed was her “birthright.” If she truly was King Arthur’s half sister, perhaps she considered herself Avalon’s rightful ruler? The latter half talked about how the council betrayed her and exiled her from Avalon, but that she would one day return to claim what was hers and put history to right. There were many times when she broke into verse, and Lily was sure these held clues to her whereabouts. Unfortunately, she couldn’t make head nor tail of them, probably because she had no context and knew very little about the original legends. She’d brushed up on her general knowledge before leaving for England, but hadn’t had time to completely read Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Historia Regum Brittaniae, and Vita Merlini, or Sir Thomas Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur.
After about ten minutes of silence in which Lily preoccupied herself with looking out the window and trying not to fidget, Cyril finally put down the eduba with a slow whistle of amazement. His eyes were wide in wonder and his mouth quirked in the way of someone who couldn’t believe their luck.
“Well?” Lily asked, anxious.
“I can tell you two things straightaway,” he said with a grin.
“Yes?”
“First of all, whoever translated this must have thought they were a lot better at Old Brittonic than they actually were. Second, whoever wrote the original text was most definitely a wizard.”
Lily sighed in relief, feeling hope for the first time after several days of intense worry. Her father might have located Morgan le Fay, but if his translation of her journal was flawed, perhaps that meant he wouldn’t have all the keys to get to her. Her resting place was surely protected by enchantments and probably even physical barriers. A moment later, though, her anxiety returned. What if her father had his own expert in Old Brittonic? Would he trust the translation or seek a second opinion? Did he know about Cyril’s expertise? Was he on the way to Oxford at that very moment? Whatever the case, they had no time to lose.
“That’s wonderful news. How soon can you get me a corrected translation?” she asked, trying not to sound desperate.
“Well…” he thought about it. “I might be able to work it in before term starts, but it’ll be a close thing. It looks like there’ll only be about…fourteen pages once it’s all typed up on A4 paper. So, maybe three, four weeks?”
Lily’s insides twisted and she gulped, forcing herself to ask the question. “Actually, um…could you get it to me by tomorrow?”
Cyril laughed. “That’s a good one. You’re joking, right?” He stared at her, the mirth slowly melting from his face. “You’re not joking, are you?”
Lily shook her head, shrinking in on herself as if by making herself smaller she could minimize the trouble she was causing him.
He laughed again, but this time it was a sort of strained, crazed laugh. “There’s no way I could possibly get this done in a day. A week, maybe, if I cancelled all my appointments and put my research on hold. But why in the world do you need it so quickly? Do you have some research deadline?”
“Well, sort of,” Lily avoided his gaze, once again wondering how much she could tell him. She supposed that, if she were going to put him through so much trouble, she might as well be up front about why. Here went nothing. “What if I told you that, um, Morgan is definitely real? What if I told you she’s my ancestor, and that my father is currently close to finding her resting place and gaining possibly immeasurable power that he will use to hurt a lot of people?” She said all this very quickly, eyes on the floor and words virtually blending together by the time she got to the end. When Cyril didn’t immediately respond, she dared a glance upward. As she’d feared, he was looking at her like she was a complete lunatic. So much for that.
“Let me get this straight. You think you’re a descendant of Morgan le Fay, and your father is trying to steal magic to hurt people?”
Lily deflated, tense muscles loosening in defeat as she slumped in her chair. She didn’t have the energy to be nervous anymore, or embarrassed. As annoying as it was, the feeling was rather freeing. If only she could feel this way all the time. “Remember how I was asking questions about John Faust earlier? Well, he’s my father. You know, John Faust LeFay?”
Realization dawned on Cyril’s face, though it was quickly replaced by more confusion. “Wait, so you’re saying the LeFays are the actual blood descendants of Morgan le Fay, or whatever historical figure her legend is based on?”
Sigh. “Yes.”
“And you’re John Faust’s daughter?”
Another sigh. “Unfortunately.”
“And he’s going to hurt people?” Cyril’s voice was becoming increasingly tense.
A very, very large sigh. “He already has.”
“Ms. Singer, if you’re serious, this sounds like something you should take to the police.”
“Yes, I’m serious. And we already tried that. He got away and cursed Madam Barrington in the process. She almost died.”
“What!” Cyril shot upright in his chair. “Is she alright?”
“Hopefully she will be. There are…several powerful wizards working on a cure. But I hope you understand how dire the situation is. If it were any less severe, I would be with my teacher, not on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean trying to stop a murderer.”
“But, we don’t even know if this journal is authentic, much less whether Morgan le Fay was a real person. Even if she was, who’s to say there’s anything left after so long?”
Lily massaged her temples. Apparently, despite her youth, she’d seen far more magic than this learned wizard ever had. She supposed such exposure to the wild and wonderful was what happened when your father was an egomaniacal, power-hungry wizard bent on world domination. If only she’d thought to borrow the ring George Dee had given to Sebastian, perhaps it might have helped convince Cyril.
“Dr. Hawtrey, have you ever been in a time loop? Gone through a portal? Seen a demon? Or one of the fae?”
“No, not exactly, but—“
“Well I have. And I can assure you they are all quite real. Please believe me when I say that it is perfectly plausible for Morgan le Fay to still exist, even still be alive,
albeit in some sort of suspended animation or time loop. While you are very experienced in historical records, I suspect you cannot claim to have pursued your magical education with as much vigor.”
He was silent, observing her with pursed lips. Finally he shook his head. “No, I suppose I can’t.”
“Very well,” Lily said, sitting up and fixing him with a stare. She only felt a slight twinge this time at the sight of that lovely face, and she studiously ignored it. “Let’s assume, for a moment, that whatever John Faust is seeking, should he find it, he could, and will, use it to great harm. Further, let’s assume that this journal can help me find it first and keep it away from him. If both these things were true, and you knew he already had the item’s location and simply needed to figure out how to get to it, how quickly could you re-translate this text?” She tapped her eduba where it lay, open, on Cyril’s desk.
The professor sighed and slumped in his chair, rubbing his face with one hand as he thought. With a snort of exasperation, whether at her or himself she couldn’t tell, he sat up, picking up her eduba and waving it at her as he spoke. “Two days. But,” he said quickly, forestalling her sigh of relief, “on one condition only.”
“Yes?” Lily asked cautiously. She suspected she wasn’t going to like it.
“You take me with you. Wherever this leads, whatever happens, you take me with you.”
“Absolutely not,” Lily said emphatically, trying to imitate her mentor’s icy tone. It usually succeeded in shutting up whoever it was directed at. Either she didn’t do it right, or else Cyril was immune to icy tones, because he just grinned.
“Take it or leave it. This is an opportunity of a lifetime. Not that I’d ever be able to tell mundanes the truth, of course. But if I could actually meet Morgan le Fay, or even just find her grave? There’s no way I’m missing out on that.”
Lily had been afraid of that. She groaned, unsure what to do. Perhaps if he realized how dangerous it would be, he might be less enthusiastic.
“Look, I don’t think you understand how dangerous my father is. He’s already almost killed a wizard much more powerful and experienced than you. Do you know how to battle-cast? Do you know defensive and offensive magic? Can you cast spells without speaking?” That last one was cheating slightly. She was still trying to master silent casting herself and so wasn’t exactly the expert at it she implied.
Though her words did dampen the professor’s enthusiasm, it did nothing to break his determination. “I’m a quick study. And I don’t have to be involved in any fighting. I’m not afraid to run and hide if the situation calls for it. I’m no Indiana Jones.”
“No, you certainly aren’t,” Lily said weakly, thinking exactly the opposite. Though, if she was honest, he looked more like a Lawrence of Arabia than an Indiana Jones. That was film for you.
“So, is that a yes?” he asked, eyes once more alight and eyebrow raised in challenge.
Lily felt trapped. Sebastian was not going to be happy about this. While he might have no compunction about making a promise with no intention of keeping it, that wasn’t her. She was a woman of her word and could not bring herself to accept this man’s help without knowing she would honor their agreement. But what choice did she have?
“I…suppose.” Lily let all the breath out of her lungs in one big whoosh, knowing as soon as the words left her mouth that they would cause her no end of trouble. The look of boyish glee on Cyril’s face did nothing to reassure her.
4
Bibliophile Heaven
After copying Morgan’s journal into his own eduba—he’d had to dig it out from under a pile of papers and brush off a layer of dust—Cyril sent her on her way with a list of books and manuscripts to read while he worked on the translation. She needed to get “up to speed,” as he put it, on Arthurian lore if they were going to unravel Morgan’s journal. The good news was, she was going to get to explore the Old Bodleian, not to mention spend hours reading within its heavenly embrace. The bad news was, it was a very long list.
On her way back up George Street toward the hotel, her phone rang. She had a moment of panic as she scrambled to answer, worried that something had happened to Sebastian. But the number calling was unknown. She answered with a careful “Hello?”
“Yes, hello. Is this Ms. Singer?” said a refined woman’s voice in the most perfect Queen’s English Lily had ever heard. It was actually rather intimidating.
“It is. May I ask who’s calling?”
“This is Emmaline Nichols. Mrs. Blackwell said you were in need of a tailor on short notice.”
“Yes! Thank you so much for calling. How soon are you available?”
“As soon as you please, Ms. Singer.”
“Oh, good! Um, well I’d like to meet as soon as you can get to Oxford. Or do I need to come to you? I’m sorry, I’ve never done this before.” She laughed nervously, then clamped her mouth shut lest she bungle things even further.
“It’s no trouble, Ms. Singer. You’re staying at the Macdonald Randolph?”
“Yes. Room 205.”
“I can meet you there in an hour.”
“Oh, alright. Do I need to bring anything, or, um, have anything ready for you?”
“Nothing at all, Ms. Singer. I’ll have everything I need with me.”
Lily took a deep breath. “Wonderful. I’ll see you in an hour, then.”
“Yes. Good day, Ms. Singer.”
“Thank you! Um, goodbye.” Lily hung up and slid the phone back into her bag, both nervous and excited at the idea of having an outfit tailor-designed. She’d thought idly about it for some time now but had never been able to nail down in her mind what it would look like. Hopefully Emmaline Nichols could help.
It was barely eleven when she got back to the hotel, wanting to check on Sebastian and Sir Kipling before Emmaline arrived. Clouds had come up while she was in Cyril’s office, and the sunny fall morning had turned into a dreary, cold day. She was more than happy to reach the warmth of the hotel and only paused to ask the front desk when lunch was being served before heading up to the second floor.
All was quiet in the corridor, so she checked her room first. Finding no life, either four-footed or two, she moved on to Sebastian’s room. If no one answered her knock, she would just try calling him.
No one answered, but she thought she heard something inside. Pressing her ear to the door, she listened, finally detecting a soft, rhythmic noise that sounded suspiciously like snoring. Well, at least the world had gone back to normal and Sebastian was acting like his usual, lazy self.
She knocked again, louder this time, and called his name. Nothing. Tentatively, she tried the door handle. The latch must not have caught the last time someone closed it because the door cracked open at her touch. She hesitated before entering, wondering if this was another one of her cat’s tricks. It wouldn’t hurt to stick her head in and give him a wakeup call, would it?
Eyes tightly shut—just in case—she poked her head into the room and yelled. “Sebastian!”
Nothing.
“Seriously?” she muttered to herself, hand protectively in front of her eyes as she used the pattern on the rug to navigate into the room. Nearing the bed, she stopped and spoke again as loudly as she dared. “Sebastian, wake up!” This time there was a snort, but then the snoring returned to its regular rhythm.
This was ridiculous. Suspecting foul play, she ever so carefully peeked between her fingers, ready to shut her eyes if need be. What she saw made her drop her hand, only to place it firmly on her hip as she gestured with the other in exasperation.
“Kip! Will you get off his chest and let him wake up? Good grief. I told you to keep an eye on him, not drug him with your magical cat powers of eternal sleep.”
Sir Kipling simply stared at her, eyes only slits of yellow beneath hooded lids that looked about to shut again.
“Sir Edgar Allan Kipling, get over here this very minute or I’ll—I’ll—I’ll lock you in your room!”
He
yawned, showing exactly what he thought of such a feeble threat.
“Alright, that’s it,” Lily muttered. “You are in so much trouble. I swear…” Seeing he was still ignoring her, she gave up and steeled herself. Keeping her gaze averted—she had no idea what, if anything, Sebastian had on under the covers—she managed to snag Sir Kipling around the middle and hauled him unceremoniously off Sebastian’s chest. The feline attempted to wiggle out of her grip, protesting loudly, but she held on, fueled by righteous anger. Or at least, righteous annoyance.
Turning and hurrying out of the room, she yelled over her shoulder for Sebastian to get up before closing the door behind her with her foot. She was relieved to hear signs of life coming through the door in the form of bleary questions and muttered curses. Now, however, she was stuck. Lily stood in the hotel corridor, hands full of wriggling, whining cat, with no way to swipe her card to get into her own room and discipline said cat.
Performing an act of dexterity she hadn’t known she was capable of, she managed to hold onto the squirming ball of fur with one hand long enough to grab him by the scruff of the neck, making sure his weight was fully supported by her hand under his chest. With one last whining mew, he gave up and went limp. She waited a second to make sure he was going to behave, then released his scruff and set him gently on the floor.
“Serves you right,” she told him as she unlocked her door and pointed imperiously inside. He slunk in, sulky, like a child caught in a prank. They proceeded to have a frank discussion about a cat’s role in matchmaking, namely that they didn’t have one. After some pointed interrogation, she discovered he’d been watching reality TV during the day while she was at work. That explained a lot. She resolved to get rid of her TV as soon as they got home. She hardly ever used it anyway.
After extracting a promise that he would stop pulling pranks involving less-than-decent situations, Lily used her room phone to call Sebastian.
Love, Lies, and Hocus Pocus Legends Page 8