Staff & Crown

by W. R. Gingell

  “He would have been all right if he’d come with the real hat,” said Annabel, feeling rather badly about everything in general. “But he’s not going to be all right in that little Don’t See thing.”

  As she said it, the spell completely flickered and died. Just a little bit too far away from the door stood Melchior, a rather startled look on his usually composed face and very clearly aware of all the eyes that were now on him.

  “Got you!” said the magic user, sitting forward with a satisfied curl of the lips.

  Melchior said something very rude and opened one of his tunnels in the wall. Annabel, with a sick, jumping heart, watched it close again and felt the first trembling signs of relief.

  “Stop him!” screamed Lord Tremare. “Gregor! Stop him at once! He carries a spell of recording for trial use!”

  Annabel stiffened, recognising the magic user far too late. “That’s the one who pulled the trigger—”

  “Exactly so,” Isabella whispered. “I remember with remarkable clarity. Nan, do you remember me saying that you ought not to rush out and attempt a rescue?”

  “Of course I—what do you mean?”

  “I mean that it may well become necessary. That man doesn’t care enough and that’s dreadfully dangerous in this sort of work.”

  Annabel watched the scene anxiously, wishing, not for the first time, that she could see magic as other people did. “Do you think he’s got very strong magic?”

  “I am very much afraid,” said Isabella quietly, as Gregor raised his arms and made a large, sweeping circle with them, “that his magic is excessively strong.”

  At first, it seemed as though the grand circle had achieved nothing. Annabel, who had slipped the pencil staff out of her pocket at the very first sign of Melchior’s danger, felt the barrel of the pencil digging into the pads of her fingers and was almost tempted to loosen them. Then the section of the wall that was still spinning slightly with a suspicion of darkness where Melchior’s spell had affected it, stopped absolutely and seemed to reverse its spiral.

  “Oh bother!” said Annabel, and flipped open her notebook as well.

  Across the room, the darker section of wall hadn’t reversed, exactly; instead, it had begun to revolve from top to bottom, a glass-like slickness growing where it spun until it began to look less like a spiral and more like a sphere. A sphere, Annabel realised, that was beginning to separate itself from the wall as it revolved, glassy and round. Nor was there any doubt as to the purpose of that sphere or its contents; as it separated from the wall, the revolving blackness within cleared to a vague suggestion of filminess and there was Melchior, sitting down calmly, cross-legged. Annabel might have thought he was resting comfortably if it wasn’t for the fact that she could see the lines of strain beside his eyes, and the way his arms were extended on each side, open palms pushing against the empty space between himself and the walls of the bubble.

  If she was right, he wasn’t breathing very deeply, either. Annabel asked, in a voice that was suddenly far too thin, “How much air do you suppose he’s got in there?”

  “What I think,” said Isabella, “is that you ought to get him out of there as quickly as you possibly can without getting us all caught. He seems to be holding off the spell on his own, but I believe he’s having difficulties breathing.”

  “All right,” said Annabel, who had been busily drawing. “But what I’m going to do will make it even harder for him to breathe for a little while. I don’t want to kill him if it takes too long.”

  “In normal circumstances I would be the most avid supporter of caution,” said Isabella. “However, in this case, Nan, Gregor is clearly unconcerned as to whether Melchior lives or dies. I really think Any Means Possible should be our watchword at this point.”

  “Amongst your classes,” said Annabel, with a throat that seemed to close up on the words, “I don’t suppose you did one on Revivification?”

  “Now, funnily enough, Nan—”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” said Annabel, smudging a last shadow on her drawing. There was a distinct swelling in her throat, with a corresponding hotness to the back of her eyes, and she wasn’t sure if she was angry, crying, or both. Melchior’s cheeks were very pale now, his lashes fluttering dark against them as he struggled to keep his eyes open, and the backs of his hands dropped against his knees as the bubble drew in around him.

  On one page of her notebook there was another Melchior, drooping and waxy but resistant still, his eyes nearly shut and his palms just barely keeping the curve of the bubble at bay. On the other side was a third Melchior, this one lying on his back in the parlour that lay on the other side of the antechamber, his eyes still open a slit.

  “Go to the parlour,” Annabel said. “Quickly! Revivify Melchior.”

  “What will you do? Nan, if the hats are too far separated—”

  “Revivify Melchior. I’ll be along shortly. I can’t leave this one just yet; I need to make it complete and Melchior doesn’t have that much time!”

  “Nan—”

  “If you don’t Revivify Melchior,” said Annabel, her voice as sharp as the point of the pencil staff, “I won’t ever speak to you again, Belle.”

  “I won’t fail,” Isabella said, and she was gone in a light flutter of skirts.

  18

  Annabel drew. With the library shouting and flying with magic all around her, she shaded furiously until the Thing she had drawn was real and present enough to keep the Old Parrasians engaged. Then she stood, her knees far weaker than she would have liked, and stole through the melee toward the antechamber door. Nobody saw as she slipped through the door and shut it behind her, and there was nothing in the antechamber but for the dust that clouded as she passed through.

  On the other side, Annabel paused for a moment, her heart beating too fast. What if she hadn’t drawn it correctly? She had never seen the parlour on the other side of the door; she had merely drawn a plain section of wall with the edge of the antechamber door peeking in to give the staff a direction. But if the door here was different to the one on the other side—if she hadn’t given enough details—would Melchior really be there? The painted wood of the door felt cold beneath her fingers.

  Annabel swallowed and opened the door all at once, in a rush.

  “Nan!” said Isabella’s voice thankfully. She was crouched directly beside the door. “I thought you were one of the Old Parrasians!”

  That was certainly Melchior sprawled on the floor, Isabella’s hand resting lightly on his stomach. Annabel felt a flush of relief, and then a second wave of coldness when she couldn’t tell if his chest rose and fell.

  “Is he—I mean, can you wake him up? It’ll be hard to get him back to Trenthams like this.”

  “It’s no good,” said Isabella. “He’s alive, but could be some time before he wakes up. I’ve seen this kind of magical exhaustion before. I’m afraid we’re on our own, Nan.”

  Annabel drew in a deep breath that wobbled in the middle. “All right,” she said, “but if this doesn’t work, I’m going to tell Melchior it was his fault.”

  “If what doesn’t—oh. Oh, I really admire your way of thinking, Nan!”

  “Good,” said Annabel, with one eye on the door that was forming in the parlour wall under the influence of the pencil staff.

  Isabella watched it with her mouth open. “I could really fancy it to be the door to Melchior’s suite!”

  “Good,” said Annabel again. “Because it is. Sort of. Could you open the door, Belle?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it?” said Isabella, but she reached out anyway. The knob Annabel had drawn without paper turned beneath Isabella’s fingers and opened into a softly lit room that was almost as familiar as their own suite. Through the antechamber door, faintly, Annabel heard shouts of The parlour! In the parlour! and her hands went cold. They must have called down the other magic users to help disintegrate her drawing.

  “Oh well done, Nan!” said Isabella encouragingly, as
if there was no one else but the three of them within earshot. “I’ve got his feet—goodness, isn’t he heavy!”

  They wrestled him through the door as quick footsteps sounded in the antechamber, and Annabel, panting put Melchior’s torso down on the carpet with rather less gentleness than haste. She slammed the door again, her back pressed against it and her heart beating very fast.

  “Ah,” said Isabella. “I didn’t think about this part—oh, Nan, do you really think it’s wise to erase the door completely?”

  “I’m not,” Annabel said, furiously erasing. “That’s why it took me a bit longer—this door isn’t in quite the same place as the one from the parlour.”

  “I thought I was seeing double from the stress. Goodness! Do you think they’ll be able to beat on the door for much longer?”

  Annabel, who had jumped violently at the thumping assault on the other side of the door, continued to erase the doubled line around Melchior’s door. Much to her relief, the noises faded as the second doorway did, and by the time it was gone the thumping had vanished just as entirely. She opened the door anyway, her fingers icy, and the familiar hall at Trenthams wafted cool, school-flavoured air into Melchior’s room.

  “Well,” said Isabella. “That was a little more fraught than I had counted upon, but really, I think we can blame Melchior for that as well. Our own plans were very nearly perfect.”

  Annabel stared at her through the doorway, then dissolved into ridiculous giggles. “I’ll be sure to tell him that when he regains consciousness!” she said.

  “Melchior would be the first to admit it,” Isabella said firmly. “Come back in before you wake the hall, Nan. That’s better. Perhaps we can carry Melchior to the sofa before we give in to our laughter.”

  “It’s too late now,” said Annabel, hiccoughing. “Oh, Belle, shouldn’t we take him to his bed?”

  “Absolutely not! He’s a great deal heavier than I anticipated, and if he was so foolish as to wander into an Old Parrasian meeting with nothing but a Don’t See on his top hat, I really think—”

  “All right, all right,” Annabel said, giggling again. She wasn’t sure if she was overtired or overwrought, but it was far too easy to giggle ridiculously with Isabella around. “No, no, leave him to me, Belle. Go to bed before we both get caught in a master’s room past lights out. I’ll stay with him until he wakes up and make sure he’s all right.”

  “Very well,” agreed Isabella, and added piously, “But if you get caught in your bad character I’ll not stand by you, and so I warn you!”

  Since she waved goodbye at the door with an airy, “Give him something to drink if he wakes up, Nan!” Annabel was left to the comforting conclusion that there was nothing wrong with Melchior that a night of rest wouldn’t fix. She covered him with the soft lap quilt that always made a bright patch of colour against the brown armchair and sank to her knees beside the sofa where she could see Melchior’s chest rise and fall in a reassuring manner.

  Annabel had been quite sure that she wouldn’t fall asleep. There was still an unpleasant feeling in her stomach that said Melchior could have—and very nearly had—died, and she knelt where she was with the confident assurance of watching over Melchior until the morning came, if need be. Certainly she didn’t lose the feeling of unpleasantness that moved uneasily in her stomach, but in spite of it, Annabel slept. She woke once during the night when Melchior stirred enough to murmur, “Nan?”, and tucked the hand that was rather aimlessly trying to reach out and touch her face back beneath the lap quilt. Melchior allowed it with a lack of protest that made her think he was still quite weak, and went back to sleep.

  This time, when Annabel fell asleep, she did so with the comforting warmth of Melchior’s open eyes in her mind. She woke to the bright dawn with her head resting on Melchior’s chest, and the brighter gleam of Melchior’s eyes as they gazed at her.

  “Good morning, Nan,” he said, his eyes entirely awake and sensible.

  Annabel, with a gleeful laugh that he was alive, and whole, and bright, seized his face with both hands and kissed him full on the mouth.

  Melchior last night might have been fainting and lacking strength, but Melchior this morning was entirely recovered. Two arms folded themselves around her at once, and Melchior kissed her back with as much enthusiasm and considerably more skill.

  Very much startled, Annabel pushed herself away and stared at him.

  “Dear me,” said Melchior, gazing up at her. “I seem to be making a remarkable amount of mistakes lately. Nan—”

  But Annabel, at first frozen and confused and then merely confused, was already darting from the room. She didn’t remember closing the door behind her, or the hall passing beneath her feet. She didn’t remember anything, in fact, beyond Melchior’s voice calling out her name, until she found herself sitting on the floor in the library, out of breath and with a heart that beat too fast.

  Disbelieving and entirely bewildered, Annabel clutched her arms around her knees. Why had she done that? Why in the world had she kissed Melchior? Worse, why had she run away? If she hadn’t run away, she could have blamed it on her relief at seeing him awake and alive. But she had kissed him, and she had run away, and now she couldn’t even pretend to herself that she had kissed him merely because she was glad he was alive. How could she face him again? How could she even face herself in the mirror?

  Annabel groaned and buried her face in her arms. There was no reason to be suddenly kissing Melchior. Wouldn’t he scold her! After he had been twitting at her for weeks not to hang around his neck and pat his head; not to whisper in his ear or be too familiar like she had been used to be with Blackfoot! Between that and her Isabella-instigated flirting, she would never hear the end of it.

  Annabel groaned again. She thought it might not be so bad if she could only explain to herself what had happened, but she couldn’t even do that. She had simply been so glad to see Melchior’s face—so glad to see his eyes open and bright, so glad to know he was alive, and here, and hers—that she had kissed him before she knew what she was doing. And yet, that wasn’t all it had been. There had also been a thought that—a thought that—and had Melchior kissed her back?

  “Oh, this is no good!” she muttered, and climbed grimly to her feet. She was going to go for a walk in the garden. A long walk. A walk where it would be extremely unlikely for her to run into Melchior—or Isabella and Isabella’s sharp eyes, if it came to that. Annabel didn’t think she could bear to be under Isabella’s knowing gaze. That gaze left her with the feeling that Isabella knew a great deal more than Annabel did, and that if she asked, Isabella might just tell her those things. Annabel wasn’t sure she was ready to hear anything from Isabella right now.

  Unfortunately for that particular plan, she met Isabella just outside the library door.

  “Oh good!” said Isabella affably. “I was hoping I would run into you here!”

  “I don’t want to talk about it!” Annabel said at once. She could already see the keenness to Isabella’s grey eyes. “I’m going for a walk!”

  “Very good,” approved Isabella, clinging to her arm, “only not that way, Nan! If you go that way you’ll meet Melchior. He seems to have a pressing desire to find you. Shall we go through the servants’ exit?”

  “Yes,” said Annabel hastily, “let’s!”

  They exited the building with something of the air of prisoners escaping into the freedom of the outside world, glancing around hastily at the open stretch between themselves and the dubious cover of the garden.

  “The gardens it will have to be,” Isabella said. “We can be seen from the windows, but we have the added advantage of being able to see anyone approaching, so if Melchior sees us, we’ll have ample opportunity to escape before he gets to us. Now Nan—”

  Annabel, marching away toward the garden hedges, said firmly, “I told you I don’t want to talk about it!”

  “Oh, this is no fun!” protested Isabella. “Not those hedges, I think, Nan; we want to be ab
le to see anyone approaching, after all!”

  “All right,” Annabel agreed reluctantly. She had walked almost instinctively toward the cover of the larger hedges, but Isabella was right—the higher hedges were no cover from the windows, and it would only make it harder to see Melchior if he did come out to find her.

  “One would think, Nan,” Isabella pursued, with a flagrant disregard for Annabel’s stated preferences, “that you had done something unseemly. One would think—”

  “I kissed Melchior,” Annabel interrupted. “And if you keep talking about it, I’m going to use the staff to—”

  Isabella clapped her hands. “Oh, lovely! No, no; don’t threaten me with the staff. I know you won’t do it, you see! I’ll be still now.”

  Annabel eyed her suspiciously. “Oh, will you?” It was more than she expected.

  “Certainly,” Isabella said, inclining her head. She sat down on a stone bench that was on the edges of a courtyard just within the first few hedges, and smiled sunnily. “My curiosity is now partially sated and I can withstand some little areas of uncertainty until I know the whole.”

  “You’re not going to know the whole,” Annabel told her, sitting down beside her.

  Isabella only continued to smile in a way that made Annabel think she believed that even less than she had believed Annabel’s threat to use the staff. That smile, however, faded a moment later.

  “Bother,” said Isabella, gazing across the courtyard. “We seem to have escaped one annoyance only to find another. Shall we get up and take another path?”

  Annabel looked up to where Lady Selma was purposefully approaching them, and came to a surprising and unwelcome conclusion. “No, I wouldn’t bother. I think she’ll just follow us.”

  “Yes, she does appear to be sailing with intent,” agreed Isabella. “Judging by what we heard last night, I’d think she’s under orders, wouldn’t you?”