The Mislaid Magician

by Patricia C. Wrede

  The area between Liverpool and Manchester has been more thoroughly surveyed. There are several ley lines in that region, but none that run along, or parallel to, any of the routes you asked about. I cannot, of course, vouch for any lines which may have been deliberately left off the maps. If you have English sources, I would suggest you check them, as only the most overzealous of British authorities would remove information from their own maps.

  I can find no observations on the effect of running a steam locomotive in the vicinity of a ley line. The stationary steam engines used in mines have, to date, not been located near enough to ley points for any difficulties to become apparent, if difficulties there are. I found, however, any number of papers regarding the tapping of ley energies. Most of them warn of inadvisable methods of attempting it, or deal with the catastrophic results of applying such techniques. The few successful methodologies are complex, and require diagrams of immense proportions, anchored by elemental energies. I will copy out the procedures, if you request it, but I am reluctant to spend so much time on the mere chance that they might be of interest.

  I am still uncertain as to what brought Herr Schellen to Stockton, when he was hired to survey the Liverpool-Manchester line, but I begin to have a glimmer of a notion—his curiosity regarding ley lines and steam locomotion is suggestive, you will agree, especially when taken in conjunction with the explosion of the railway engine two weeks ago. I intend to devote my immediate investigations—if I can ever escape from Webb to make any—to discovering whether there were other, earlier accidents on the Stockton-Darlington railway that might have drawn the Herr Magus’s attention in this direction. Meanwhile, I shall ask my dear Cecelia to see what can be ascertained about the ley line the letter implies is nearby. If she complains of the headache, even Miss Webb cannot deny her a quiet afternoon alone, and I doubt it will take her an entire afternoon to work the basic series of detection spells.

  Yours,

  James

  9 April 1828

  Haliwar Tower

  Dearest Kate,

  I am so happy that I cannot resist writing at once. (And besides, I think it possible that you are having difficulty reading the shawl I sent, or more likely with composing one in response. I intend to try a new enchantment on this letter, which will make it appear yet another compilation of complaints and queries about the children to any eyes but yours. Ignore the symbols along the edges; they are part of the enchantment.)

  I am happy because my dear Walker has finally returned from her French holiday. No other maid has her hand with a curling iron, nor her thoroughness in pressing a seam. (She frowned darkly and said something in French when she saw the state my gowns are in after three weeks of travel, but I expect she will have things well in hand shortly.) She reports that things are quiet at Tangleford Hall.

  She has also proven to be a useful ear in the servants’ quarters—not that I ever doubted her ability (which she has proved repeatedly, as you well know), but I had expected that the circumstance of her being French, combined with the Yorkshire accent (which all of the servants possess to some extent, and which is, in a few, entirely impenetrable even to James), would make it difficult for her to play her usual role.

  Happily, I was quite out in this regard. According to Walker, the combination of her English surname and obvious French origins elicits all sorts of questions, which serve to open a conversation. Several of the maids find her story excessively romantic—the French girl who married a young English officer, only to be cast out, penniless, when he died. In return, they regale her with similar romantic titbits from the Webbs’ family history.

  The most interesting bit of knowledge that she has so far unearthed is that the Webbs are descended from nobility. Haliwar Tower is all that remains of their splendid past. No one seems quite certain how or when the title was given up, though its loss is apparently something of a sore point for the Webbs. No one was willing to admit which nobleman was responsible (though I am certain they all must know; “old family secrets” of this sort are always common currency among the servants, no matter how long ago the events occurred).

  Why should this be at all interesting (apart from the usual fascination that salacious gossip holds)? Well, because there is something very odd indeed about Haliwar Tower—but I must tell you this part in order, or I fear it will be utterly incomprehensible.

  Last week, James received a translation of that German letter we have all been wondering about. It implied, quite strongly, that our missing Herr Magus was interested in a ley line that passed near the railway—quite a strong one, from the sound of it. (Has Thomas set you to studying ley lines yet? They are natural flows of magical energy, rather like rivers, though quite straight. A sufficiently hardy wizard can tap them to perform powerful magics. The longer the ley line, the more power it contains. And because a ley line is a natural phenomenon, one cannot simply feel it as one does an ordinary spell; not unless one has been sensitized by casting the proper spells of discernment. It was only about two hundred and fifty years ago that Ferranolo developed the detection spell that proved their existence, though it turns out they are quite common. There is a small one at Tangleford, and probably several near Skeynes.)

  Naturally, James asked me to verify the presence of the line. It took me nearly a full day to surreptitiously assemble the materials for the spell (such things will be vastly easier now that Walker is here, as she can excuse all manner of peculiar ingredients as being part of her secret receipt for face cream), and another half day to detach myself from Adella Webb long enough to perform the detection spells (fortunately, I had a long letter from Papa that morning; I had only to show it to her to convince her that it would take me an entire morning of private endeavor to decipher it). Then I cast them all twice, just to be certain I had done everything right.

  The spells, you see, are meant to give a clear “yes” or “no” answer to the question of whether there is a ley line in the neighborhood (and Haliwar Tower is quite close enough to Stockton and the railway for me to have detected whatever was there). If one has a map, one can even draw them in place. The answer I got was a muddle—there was something nearby, quite strong, but it did not have the crisp edges, clear path, and sense of flow that a ley line does. It felt more like a stagnant pond than a river of magic.

  James was quite disappointed, though he assured me he did not think my skills were at fault. I was more disgruntled. The detection spells are really quite simple, once one knows them, and ought not to be susceptible to ambiguous reading unless the caster is extremely unskilled. (It is times like this, Kate, when I feel my lack of formal training. It is all very well to say that there is little real difference between a magician and a fully educated and accredited wizard, but you and I both know that it is no such thing.)

  To coax me out of the dismals, James persuaded the Webbs that an afternoon ride was in order. (And it was indeed a splendid day for it—the morning drizzle had passed off, and the sky was only dotted with clouds, not smothered by them.) I fear that I was not at first in such good spirits as he had hoped—the Webbs’ stable is merely adequate—but the opportunity to avoid yet another game of cards was irresistible. Two of the other couples decided to join us on the ride, and we set off with a minimum of fuss.

  As soon as we passed the outer gate of Haliwar Tower, I felt the ley line (for the effects of the discernment spell do not fade for several hours). It was practically under my feet, running straight toward the river, and quite as strong as the German letter had implied.

  Naturally, I gave no indication that anything was at all out of the common way. Fortunately, just at that point, Mr. Webb asked if we had any preference as to the direction of our ride.

  “Is it far to the river?” I asked, looking east as if I thought that was the proper direction (when I knew perfectly well it runs west of Haliwar).

  Mr. Webb frowned, as if he found something odd about my request, but before he could say anything, Adella leaned forward. “Oh,
that will be perfect!” she said. “It is one of my favorite rides.”

  “It is just as like as not to rain before we get back,” Mr. Webb said, frowning even more furiously.

  “Then perhaps we should ride toward Stockton,” I said a little too casually. “If rain comes on, we can take shelter there.”

  “An excellent notion,” James put in promptly.

  Mr. Webb’s eyes narrowed slightly. Just as he was about to speak, one of the other ladies said, “Pish-posh! A little rain will not melt anyone.”

  “I bow to the ladies,” Mr. Webb said. “Adella, as it is your favorite, will you lead?”

  It took about an hour to reach the river at the slow pace Adella set, pausing occasionally when she saw a vista of particularly fine composition, and we crossed and recrossed the ley line as we wound our way along the lanes. As we came over a rise, I could feel the ley line even more strongly than before. Near the bank of the river, I could see one of the steam trains coming up the railway line.

  Adella pulled her horse to a stop at the crest of the hill. “Is it not charming?” she said, waving at the river.

  As I began to answer, the steam engine reached the point just opposite us, and the ley line began to tremble. The engine slowed, as if a sudden weight had been added to its load—and it had, Kate, for I could feel the steam train actually pulling the ley line sideways, like the string of a bow as it is being drawn. The horses felt it as well and began moving restlessly.

  “What on earth—?” said one of the gentlemen as he tried to control his mount.

  “The animals dislike the train,” Mr. Webb said. “It makes them nervous.”

  Just then the steam engine blew a long whistle—James told me later that it is a way of letting off the pressure when the steam becomes too hot—and the ley line snapped back into place, vibrating. The horses all spooked; mine tried to rear, and I was very nearly unseated. The train picked up speed once more and disappeared among the hills, though a long, white plume of smoke continued to mark its position.

  The other ladies were rather shaken, and I pretended to be, so we made our way back to Haliwar Tower at once. Mr. Webb was ungentlemanly enough to remark that if we had not insisted on visiting the river (and, perforce, the railway), we should not have been discomfited, but he did not make a great point of it. And as we returned through the gate, I felt the same blurring of my sense of the ley line, though by then the detection spell was fading rapidly.

  So there is something about Haliwar Tower that dampens magic, or ley lines, or both together. It has the feel of something long-established, I think, though it is not easy to determine from inside. Still, it makes it unlikely that either of the Webbs is a magician, for they could not have failed to notice the problem, just as I have, and I am sure they would not have stayed here without attempting to do something about it.

  There is also the matter of the ley line, which ought to run right under Haliwar (or rather, Haliwar was built directly atop it). So James has written to London to discover whatever old records there may be of the history and ownership of the tower. Meanwhile, I have dropped a hint that a visit to Stockton for purposes of shopping would not come amiss. (Which indeed it would not—I am in need of curl papers and yellow embroidery silk—but I am hoping to find a local history, or at least a volume on ley lines, at a bookstore or circulating library. Ley lines are a rather specialized area of study, even for full wizards, and I of course am familiar only with what is common knowledge among magicians.)

  I trust the children are well and have created no permanent disasters, nor continued to populate your guest rooms with reptiles or other livestock. I do not, however, depend upon it. Give them my love.

  Yours,

  Cecy

  11 April 1828

  Skeynes

  Dear Cecy,

  Heaven knows when I shall be able to send you this letter, for Thomas will have to enchant it for me. After ten years of study, I can dependably do the two spells Thomas taught me (finding him and calling him) and the spell Lady Sylvia showed me to keep my hair up, but I’m afraid that the fine points of magical cipher and anticipher will always be beyond me. I know Thomas despairs of me as a student. I cannot bear the cacophony of most spells, and I wonder at anyone who can.

  The Webbs sound on a par with snakes and frogs. You have all my sympathies. On top of all that, Daniel seems an even greater social burden than usual. It is outside of enough. There are some duties no one should have to perform, and in my view, gracious behavior under such conditions qualifies.

  Forgive my grumpiness. Georgy is burden enough for me. I am out of all patience with her sulking and her sighs. This afternoon she shall join us, willy-nilly, for a walk across the park to the hermitage. It is a lovely day, one of the finest we have had, and if there is no other way to prise her out of doors than to bully her into accompanying the children and me (and the nurses, of course) on a combined mapmaking expedition and frog hunt, so be it. (There won’t be any frogs at this time of year, of course, a piece of cynicism on my part, which I freely admit played a primary role in my reasoning when I agreed to the suggestion.)

  I must seem a trifle obsessed with frogs. Do forgive me. Given the scriptural lessons we hear at this season, the assorted plagues of Egypt have come to be a topic of rich interest in the nursery. I am only grateful, given the alternatives, that the plague that caught the children’s interest was mere frogs.

  Although the quest for amphibian life is doomed to disappointment, we shall be adding to the Map (believe that it deserves the dignity of a capital letter, for it is a stately creation, all Arthur and Eleanor’s own work, constantly revised and improved) as we negotiate the gardens and groves of the park on our way to the folly. I trust praise of the twins’ Map will balance the inevitable disappointment at the lack of frogs.

  Of course, even if we find no frogs, there is every possibility Edward will find something just as disgusting. A snake, perhaps. Possibly a hedgehog. If we are really unfortunate, a nest of hornets.

  Oh, the joys of family life. No wonder Thomas is taking so long to wander back from London. Who could blame him? When he returns, I will ask him to enchant this letter. At least I need not apologize for the delay, as you won’t miss any news of importance.

  Cecy,

  Your children are safe. We have them (and Laurence, of course) under lock and key and every guarding spell conceivable. I will write the moment I have more news.

  12 April

  Dear Cecy,

  What a dreadful mull I have made of this letter. I must repair my shattered wits and try my best to make sense of it for you. At least I have the comfort of knowing that the moment I conclude, Thomas is waiting to prepare it for me, so that you will read this in decent privacy. To anyone else, it would resemble the longest request for advice on child rearing in recorded history. I wish whoever is spying on you joy of the various receipts for pap.

  In the opening (and I trust more lucid) passage of this letter, I made reference to an afternoon jaunt across Skeynes Park. Ignorance is bliss, Cecy, make no mistake. I was so ignorant, I was quite blissful as we set forth across the grounds.

  It was a lovely day. The grass, although damp underfoot, was not slippery. The children ran like colts, shouting with pure animal spirits. I felt a bit like shouting myself.

  Georgy seemed as delighted with the beauty of the day as all the rest of us. Arthur and Eleanor led us, the Map held carefully between them, and Edward strolled from our left flank to our right and back, hands in his pockets and eyes on the ground. No snail, no salamander, no toad had a hope of escaping his notice. Diana, the infant Laurence, and Baby Alexander were safely in the keeping of Nurse Carstairs and Nurse Langley, and we had footmen along to carry the vast assortment of impedimenta our expedition required.

  Our visit to the hermitage was a great success. After a thorough search of that Gothick ruin, during which Edward turned up a small grass snake, we settled in to enjoy a nice rest. Repose, although ple
asant, did not last long. Arthur, Eleanor, and Edward were off again in just under a quarter of an hour. We less hardy souls composed ourselves to wait for their return. It seems a world away, that sleepy interlude during which the great concern on my mind was the possibility of grass stain.

  Georgy grew concerned when the children did not return. She rose from her spot on the rug, brushed imaginary dust from her skirts, and challenged me. “Where can they be? Aren’t you worried?”

  “Don’t you remember how tiresome it was to have Aunt Charlotte forever fretting over us?” I countered. “Let them alone. They can have a bit of an adventure for once.”

  “I’m going to find them,” said Georgy. “Come along.”

  With reluctance, I joined her. We left the nurses doting upon Diana and the babies and walked down the path beyond the hermitage. A few hundred yards beyond, we were deep in woodland. The path continued, the trees thinned, and we found ourselves at the stile that gives on to the road.

  Arthur and Eleanor were crouched beside the stile. As Georgy and I approached, they turned to us with gestures enforcing silence. With caution, Georgy and I approached and peered over the stone wall.

  Standing in the middle of the road, for all the world as if its owner intended to set up permanent residence there, was a tinker’s caravan of the most fascinating kind. There was a well-fed donkey in the traces, but no driver on the box. The body of the cart was freshly painted, with carved ornaments picked out in contrasting colors all around the curved roofline. There were spanking-clean curtains at the little window, and its tiny panes of glass gleamed as if polished by a jeweler.