The Mislaid Magician

by Patricia C. Wrede

  We did not stay long; there really was no point. Adella was quite useless as a source of information. All she could do was wring her hands and wish that her brother were there. She did make a halfhearted attempt to persuade us to return, but I think she must have done so only because her brother extracted some promise from her before he left, for it was plain that she was hoping we would decline. Her relief when we did was palpable.

  We had a pleasant ride back to Stockton, and the following morning, James left early to ride to Goosepool, in search of the farmhouse that was missing a foreign visitor. He returned late in the day, jubilant. After three false starts, he had found the very place, and while the farmer’s wife had been disinclined to talk much of the incident, he thought she might be more forthcoming with another female. So he had told her that we might wish to rent the room on behalf of some mythical person but that I would have to look it over first, then made arrangements for us to ride out again at some convenient time in the next day or two.

  The weather prohibited so long a ride on Thursday, but Friday—yesterday—we went. Even on a hired hack, the ride was enjoyable. The woman was waiting, and showed us to a small room at the back of the house. James took himself off almost immediately, leaving me to attempt to draw my hostess into conversation.

  It was considerably more difficult than you might think. At first, she limited herself strictly to remarks about the room, while I looked over the meager furnishings—a plain bed with a chest at the foot. I said things like, “You must have had many lodgers,” and, “Will there be any difficulty getting to Darlington from here?” and she replied, “Happen I have,” or, “Happen there may.”

  I was about to give up and rejoin James, when there came a rumbling and a noise resembling all of the horses at the Derby thundering past at once. At first, I thought it was another magical eruption, but it was plain that my hostess heard it, too. “Good heavens,” I said when the noise at last began to fade, “what was that?”

  My hostess gestured at the window and said something about “tha great noisy smelly gowk” that I did not at first comprehend. When I looked out of the window, however, I saw a string of coal wagons barely a quarter mile distant, disappearing in the direction of Stockton. “Oh, the railway,” I said. “I had no notion you were so close to the line.”

  That was enough to set her off. The railway was, evidently, a sore point with her, as it cut up the grazing land and frightened the sheep. She was especially cross because the builders had revised the planned route of the railway just before it was actually built. The new route moved the rails some way north of the original plan, and had the surveyors changed just a few more miles of railway, the “great noisy smelly” trains would have passed well north of the house. The revisions, however, end just before Goosepool; from Goosepool east to Stockton, the railway follows the trail mapped out by the original surveyors.

  “Dear me,” I said when she ran down at last. “That is most unfortunate. Did the noise much disturb your last tenant?”

  “Oh, aye; every time the wagons passed, he ran out to scowl at them,” the woman said. “That’s when he wasn’t off mucking with the circle.”

  “Circle?”

  “Aye. The Dancing Weans, they’re called. Nine great rocks in a circle, as old as old. Haunted, they are. He should no have been mucking about there.”

  “Very likely,” I said. “Where is this stone circle?”

  She looked at me suspiciously.

  “My father is an antiquarian,” I said with perfect truth. “He is interested in such things. If it is not too far, I thought my husband and I might ride past it so I could send Papa a description.”

  She sniffed, but obliged with the directions—half a mile east, atop a small hill overlooking the railway line. We then chatted amicably about the idiosyncrasies of male persons, which led with very little prompting to my obtaining the whole story of her missing tenant, such as it was.

  Herr Magus Schellen—for it was indeed he who had rented the room—stayed only for three days before his disappearance. On the first day, he walked the railway line toward Darlington. On the second, he walked toward Stockton, and returned in a state of high excitement (or so I infer) to ask a great many questions about the Dancing Weans. On the third day, he took a large bag to the stone circle with him and stayed most of the day. On the fourth morning, he left for the circle, carrying his bag as before, and was not seen again. The bag vanished also, and that night, all of his belongings disappeared from the room.

  “T’ neighbor says ’twas a haunt took him,” my informant said with another sniff. “And there’s no sayin’ it wasn’t, the way he was on about the Dancing Weans, and all. But I say, whoever heard of a haunt coming back for a man’s pipe and smallclothes?”

  “It does seem unlikely,” I agreed. James returned at that point, and the woman immediately returned to her initial reticence. As it was plain we would learn no more, we took our leave.

  As we mounted our horses, I told James of the stone circle and my intention of investigating on the return ride. He was reluctant at first but soon saw the wisdom of making a casual-seeming stop on our way back to Stockton, rather than making a special trip out to look at it later.

  So we turned our horses toward the railway line, so as to get within sight of it and then ride parallel to it until we saw the stone circle. (It is surprisingly easy to miss seeing a railway line that is running through a series of flatish country fields, if there is no train passing at the moment. Where there are cuts through the hills, or where the land has been raised to level the line, it is much easier.) As we rode, I told James what I had learned.

  “Interesting,” James said when I finished. “I wonder why the railway route was changed … and who selected the new path.”

  “Perhaps you should ask Lord Wellington,” I said.

  “I don’t think Wellington knows anything about it,” James replied. “The original plans had to be approved by Parliament, but once that was done, the corporation wouldn’t have had to inform them of anything but really major changes.”

  “Somebody must have known,” I said. “Besides all the local people, I mean.”

  “Yes.” James looked very thoughtful. “Perhaps I should visit Darlington tomorrow and see what I can learn at the corporation offices.”

  “I think—” I broke off. We were almost to the railway line, and I felt an unmistakable tingling. “James! The railway feels like that ley line—the one near Haliwar Tower.”

  “What?” James reined in his horse, and I was forced to follow his example. “How can you tell? You haven’t done the sensing spells. Have you?”

  “No, of course not,” I said. “But I can feel it nonetheless. It isn’t as clear as the line by Haliwar, but if I can sense it even without the ley spell, this ley line must be far stronger.”

  “You didn’t sense it before, when we rode the train,” James said skeptically.

  “No, but I hadn’t done any ley-line-sensing spells then,” I pointed out. “I’ve done them twice since then. Possibly there’s still a lingering bit of magical residue, or that burst of magic at Haliwar may have made me more sensible of the presence of ley lines.”

  “Or perhaps being aboard the train interfered with your ability to sense them at all,” James suggested.

  “Yes!” I said. “Remember the way the locomotive made the ley line bend? The train pushed it out of the way, or tried to—and then it snapped back. We were in the wagons well behind the engine, so we wouldn’t have felt anything, except perhaps when the ley line jumped back into place, and that would only have been for an instant when it passed by.”

  “I wouldn’t have felt anything, regardless,” James said without rancor. “But don’t get carried off by your theories. We don’t actually know which of them is correct.”

  We rode toward Stockton in silence for a few minutes. “The ley line along the railway is fading,” I said after a time.

  “Ley lines don’t change intensity as f
ast as that,” James said.

  “This one seems to be,” I said. “Unless it’s my sensitivity that’s fading, but I don’t think it is.”

  “Look! There are the Dancing Weans,” James said.

  We cantered forward to a low stone wall at the foot of the hill, then rode along it until we came to a gate. A man, a boy, and two sheepdogs were collecting a large flock of sheep from the slopes on the other side; the boy broke off work long enough to open the gate for us, and James rewarded him with a shilling. The horses picked their way along the sheep trails until we were almost at the top of the hill, where we dismounted. I handed my reins to James, then started for the stone circle a few yards away.

  I got barely three steps. James shouted; there was a brown-and-white flash and one of the sheepdogs stood in front of me, blocking my way. I tried to go around him, but he blocked me again. And again. He didn’t growl or bark, just made sure that there was no way I could get any closer to the circle.

  The shepherd came puffing up at last. “Sorry, mum,” he said. “He’s a good dog, for all he’s new. Never acted like this afore. Down, you!”

  The last was said to the dog, who looked at him but did not obey. The shepherd made a grab for him, but the dog dodged. I took the opportunity to step forward, and instantly the dog was there again, this time gently but insistently shoving me away from the circle.

  I felt a shiver of magic. Frowning, I stripped off one of my riding gloves and held out my hand for the dog to sniff. He licked my hand and whined, and as he did I sensed the magic much more clearly.

  It was an enchantment, quite a strong one—wizard-grade, in fact (I have felt enough of Thomas’s spells to know the difference in quality, compared to the sort of thing a mere magician can cast). The dog whined again, and something made me say, in a low voice, “Herr Magus Schellen?”

  The dog burst into a fury of barking. The shepherd burst into a flurry of apologies, while attempting again to catch the dog. The dog avoided him easily, keeping a wary eye on me.

  “Excuse me, Mr. …?” I said to the shepherd.

  “Williams,” the shepherd said.

  “Mr. Williams, how long have you had this dog?”

  “He’s never done anything like this, mum, I swear. I don’t know what has got into him.”

  “Yes, you said that before,” I told him. “But how long have you had him?”

  “He turned up late last autumn,” Mr. Williams replied. “I disremember the date.”

  “I thought as much,” I said. I gave James a meaningful look. “I believe this dog belongs to a friend of ours, Herr Magus Schellen. His dog disappeared last October, didn’t he, James?”

  “Just so,” James said smoothly. “I’m sure you will wish us to restore him to his proper owner.” Mr. Williams began to make some protest, but James cut him off. “I am sure our friend would wish you to be compensated for your trouble in caring for his, er, valuable animal.” He pulled a banknote from his pocket and held it out.

  The shepherd took the note and was instantly reduced to speechlessness, from which I inferred that James had chosen to be most generous. Since the matter seemed settled, I looked at the dog. “Come, er, Franz,” I said.

  The sheepdog came instantly, but the moment I started toward the stone circle again, he blocked my way. Not wishing to make any more of an issue of the matter before Mr. Williams, I said, “Another time, then,” and went back to the horses. James threw me up, and we rode off, with our new acquisition at our heels.

  As soon as we were out of earshot, James demanded to know what queer start I was about now.

  “Well,” I said, “I am not perfectly certain. But I think—I am very much afraid that—I believe this sheepdog is actually Herr Magus Schellen.”

  The sheepdog barked once, as if to confirm what I had said. James looked from him to me. “Good Lord.”

  “It is quite a strong enchantment,” I said. “And before you ask, I do not think it will be easy to remove.”

  “Once we get him back to London, that won’t be a problem,” James said. “I’m sure the Royal College of Wizards can handle it.”

  “First we have to get him to Stockton,” I said. I turned to the dog. “Do you think you can walk so far, sir?”

  The sheepdog barked once and trotted a few yards in the direction of the town. We took that as indicating agreement, and so rode slowly back.

  That was yesterday; as I write this, James is making arrangements for us to return to London with Herr Schellen as quickly as may be. I hope that by the time you receive this, we will be on our way, so you may write next to the London town house. Do not, under any circumstances, mention the Herr Magus’s situation in front of the children. It would not do for Arthur to take it into his head that we have acquired a sheepdog. He has quite enough dogs at home already.

  I have every hope that this whole affair will be ended once we deliver Herr Magus Schellen to the Royal College and they disenchant him (though I shall be most put out if no one thinks to tell us all the details, once Herr Schellen is in a fit state to supply them). Another two weeks, at most, should therefore see the end of our children’s visit (for which I am deeply grateful, Arthur’s and Eleanor’s new abilities at scrying notwithstanding).

  I am, by the way, most impressed by your reconstruction of Edward’s adventure. I can see why it took you something over a week to produce it—I can only imagine (and admire) the painstaking work it must have taken to compare his various accounts and eliminate the plainly fanciful. It is a pity that it sheds so little light on who Drina is, for it seems likely that she, too, was carried off by the odious Mr. Scarlet. Her family must be quite beside themselves with worry. But perhaps I will hear something when we arrive in London; the Season is at its height now, and while it is not what it was when we were young, it is still the best time and place for gossip of any sort. If Drina’s family is so well-off, surely someone will have heard of them, and know that they are missing a child.

  Your,

  Cecy

  P.S. —Why Thomas should think that either James or myself would commonly carry a compass about, I cannot imagine. As we do not, I cannot answer his questions about the behavior of such an item either inside, outside, or anywhere near Haliwar Tower. If we ever return there (a thing which seems most unlikely), I shall make a point of procuring a compass so as to provide the information he so urgently requested.

  As regards his other questions—to the best of my recollection, the weather seemed coming on to rain earlier in the evening, but luckily when we all ran outside after the magical shaking, it had cleared. It would have been the outside of enough to have had to stand in the rain while the gentlemen worked at putting out the fires. It was quite calm, also; I remember thinking how fortunate that there was no risk of a spark being blown onto the roof of the stables. And if there was any alteration in the appearance of the river, or in the color of its water, it had passed off long before James and I saw it the following morning—it is, you may recall, some distance from the house.

  28 April 1828

  Skeynes

  (This letter enchanted by T.S.—entirely upon trust)

  Dear Cecy,

  I applaud you (and James, of course) for locating Herr Magus Schellen. One piece of the puzzle is solved, although many more remain. Thomas and I have (I hope) exercised the utmost discretion in the matter, so the children know you have carried out Lord Wellington’s mission, yet they entertain no canine expectations whatsoever. Even if they did, it would take something rather startling in the way of pets to distract them from the salient point: In less than a fortnight, you will be reunited.

  We have another salient point to consider. At last Drina has begun to speak freely, even in the presence of adults. This morning the children were engaged in one of their customary nursery debates, endless as it was pointless, when Eleanor referred to me as Aunt Kate. I can hardly do justice to the impatience in Drina’s voice when she countered, “She isn’t your aunt Kate. She’s your
first cousin once removed.”

  It surprised me to hear Drina speak at all. It startled me that a stranger should have divined the precise degree of our relationship with such accuracy. What astonished me was when Drina added, “Your other cousin once removed is only an ordinary duchess.”

  “Do you mean Aunt Georgy?” Eleanor’s tranquility was entirely unruffled by Drina’s criticisms. “She’s not a bit ordinary. She’s the most beautiful duchess there is, so there.”

  “No, she isn’t.” Drina noticed me staring at her and fell silent. She has spoken naturally enough ever since, no matter who is present. Yet she does not permit herself to answer further questions about her family. The threat to her mother still rules her.

  I relate this incident in detail since I am certain you will find it full of interest. Georgy is the most beautiful duchess I have ever seen, without question, but how does it chance that Drina has such a decided opinion on the subject?

  Reardon’s inquiries have borne fruit at last. As you recall, the house in Stroud was hired three months ago by Mr. Adolphus Medway. It is perfectly possible that Mr. Scarlet and Mr. Medway are one and the same. According to the neighbors, Mr. Scarlet did entertain many visitors, but Thomas is inclined to dismiss all such descriptions as manifestations of Mr. Scarlet’s chameleon-like talent for disguise. Why Mr. Scarlet should wish to bother to pay calls upon himself, Thomas is at a loss to explain.

  Mr. Scarlet presented himself as a dealer in wool, interested in both bales of fleece and the finished cloth. Although Mr. Scarlet displayed no aptitude in the role—he arrived at quite the wrong time of year, for one thing—he went about his alleged business in a way methodical enough to excite neither comment nor interest from his neighbors. Then, a month or so ago, he disappeared for a week without a word to anyone. His reappearance occurred just after the full moon at the end of March. Mr. Scarlet made no reference to his absence beyond the flimsy lie that he had been abed with an illness the entire time. So ill that he took in no provender whatever? So sick he had no coal for his fire? You may picture for yourself Reardon’s scornful dismissal of this tale. A farrago of lies, she calls it.