The Midnight Queen

by Sylvia Izzo Hunter

  “I have found her, indeed,” Gray replied; “she is with my sister, embroidering baby-clothes and talking of . . . of fripperies, as though we had nothing of more importance to do.”

  The older man shook his head. “Miss Sophie does her best, Marshall,” he said. “As do you. You must not expect too much of her; she has not had the advantages of a systematic education, and she has far more magickal talent than most, nearly all undisciplined and unexplored. And, besides all this, she is very young, and has been accustomed to a much more . . . retired style of living than—”

  Gray slumped dejectedly into a seat across the table. “It is not that, at all,” he admitted. “If it were that she is unwilling, or did not learn quickly enough . . .”

  “Well, then,” Master Alcuin prompted, “what is it that disturbs you so? This is not like you, Marshall.”

  Gray was spared the trial of attempting to explain, however, for at that moment the door opened, almost silently, and Sophie—looking as colourless and insignificant as in her father’s dining-room—stepped into the library. Though she did not greet him or even look at him, he felt, now that she was near, like a wandering sailor at last sighting his lodestar.

  “Here I am,” she said softly, taking a seat at the end of the table and addressing herself to Master Alcuin. “Magister, Gray tells me that there is something you wished to discuss with me?”

  “Indeed,” their teacher replied. “A discovery of great import to your magick—though it is his more than my own. Did you not tell me, Marshall,” turning to Gray, “that the answer came to you in the night?”

  At once Sophie blushed and looked down at her hands, and Gray wished heartily that he had not said even this much to any other person. “I ought not to have alluded to the circumstances,” he said, leaning towards Sophie and pitching his voice for her ears alone, “but I should not wish to . . . to steer you awry . . . on such a matter.”

  She raised her face to his, eyes wide. “What matter?” she asked. “Gray, whatever do you mean?”

  “Your spell,” Gray said; “or, rather, your spells. Your magia musicæ. I—we—I understand, now, what it is you do.”

  * * *

  Sophie remembered, now, that last night he had promised to explain something.

  “You found it yourself,” he continued, “in the marginalia of Gaius Britannicus’s commentary on Orpheus; but I did not understand, then, what it meant.”

  “The singer may work various magicks, even as the Sirens of Homer,” Sophie quoted, remembering. “It does mean something, then?”

  “It means exactly what it says,” Master Alcuin replied. “The Sirens are—were—the first recorded to possess this particular magick. It is very rare indeed, but the histories document various other exercises of such a power, though in such a haphazard way that its course is difficult to follow.”

  “What power?” Sophie was bewildered. “The Sirens’ song lured men to their deaths, the histories say . . .” She paused, and in her mind things shifted subtly, fragments slotting into place. She looked up in horror. “That?” she demanded. “That is my talent?”

  Gray’s expression told her she had guessed aright.

  “Magia musicæ is not inherently malevolent,” Master Alcuin said gently, holding her gaze. “Its effects depend on will, on intent. The same is true of any magickal working, as I am sure you understand.”

  “What Master Alcuin means,” Gray added—Sophie turned to him, hopeful—“is that though you certainly could do such a thing, anyone admitted to the privilege of knowing you, must understand that you never should.”

  “Exactly, exactly,” the older man agreed, and patted Sophie’s hand. “The vital words are various magicks; you may leave the Sirens out entirely, if you wish.”

  “Yes,” said Sophie after a moment. “Yes, I think I should prefer it so.”

  “It is all in Orpheus,” Gray explained. “Gaius Britannicus did not quite comprehend it; perhaps he translates the Greek too literally. I am not sure how well I understand it myself. But here—in Claudius Varo’s translation—we have this . . .” One long finger trailed along the line of cramped Latin print as he read, “That which we name ‘the magick of music’ has generally several discrete parts: the power of drawing persons for diverse purposes, or of holding captive; a species of foretelling, in general sadly unreliable; the means to evoke a sanguine or melancholy mood in the hearer; the power of soothing a savage or enraged beast . . . There is quite a bit more in this vein; and at last we have this: It is generally agreed, that the human voice is the most powerful channel of this magick, and that only the most powerful possessors of such a talent may exercise it in other wise—with an instrument alone, I suppose he means. Then, eventually, he tells us that a person possessing such a talent may exercise all of its aspects or, more usually, a few only.” Laying the codex gently down upon the table, he looked up at Sophie. “What do you think? Have we found our answer?”

  “I . . .” Sophie could not think what to say. Your spell drew me, Gray had said, and she supposed that he must have the right of it, for certainly she could offer no better explanation. “Does Orpheus,” she began again, “condescend to explain the particulars of the workings he mentions?”

  Gray looked down at the book again. “If he does so,” he said dryly, “it is not in a manner I should consider practically useful. My own opinion . . .”

  There was a brief silence before, almost simultaneously, both Sophie and Master Alcuin prompted, “Your opinion?”

  “I believe that this magick must work in the same way as your . . . more evident talent,” said Gray. “But—tell me—” His eyes held Sophie’s, and she found herself, absurdly, admiring their depth of colour: gold and brown and green mixed all together. “What were you thinking of, when . . .”

  “Of you, of course,” she replied, without pausing for thought.

  “And those other times?”

  “Other times?”

  “In the small drawing-room at Callender Hall,” Gray elaborated, and now she recalled his—at the time, mystifying—remarks on the subject of displaced magick shock: There was magick in that room. I felt it—it called me there.

  “I cannot now recall,” she said, “or not precisely; but I was thinking, I suppose, how much I should miss your company when the Professor took you away again.”

  She smiled, a little tremulously, and was inexpressibly comforted by his answering smile.

  “And on that first night in the library?”

  Sophie blinked. “Then, too?” she asked. “I . . . I was wishing for someone to help me make sense of Gaius Aegidius.”

  She remembered thinking, at the time, what an odd coincidence it was that Gray should have appeared in the doorway of the library just then.

  “It does seem that we have made some considerable progress.” Master Alcuin’s pensive remark startled Sophie from her thoughts. Both she and Gray turned to give him their full attention.

  “Of the workings mentioned by Orpheus,” he began, “we can be sure only of the drawing-spell; what else you may be able to achieve, we shall have to determine by experiment—at some other time, when we have leisure for such researches. But, Marshall, this discovery of yours raises more questions than it answers. Tavener’s Historie, you see”—before him lay another, newer codex, which he patted affectionately as he spoke—“names the royal house of Tudor as connected to magia musicæ, and as for Miss Sophie’s other, equally unusual magickal talent . . .” He paused.

  Sophie found that her hands had curled into fists, and carefully unfolded them.

  “I am an old man,” Master Alcuin went on, “old enough to have seen a great deal of what the two of you may consider ‘history,’ and heard tell of considerably more, accounts both reliable and . . . rather less so. It occurs to me that some years ago—perhaps as many years, Miss Sophie, as you have lived—the kingdom was f
ull of tales of another young woman who seemed able to disappear at will. A woman who fled one night with her infant daughter, and never was seen again . . .”

  We must tell him. He has guessed it all already . . . Sophie fought the urge to look to Gray for confirmation of her decision; this was her own secret, her own tale, and the telling of it must be hers to undertake.

  “You are quite right, Magister,” she said at last, raising her head to meet his kindly, penetrating eyes. “That woman was my mother; she has been in the realm of Proserpina these past nine years, and—and the infant daughter with whom she fled, you see before you now.”

  Master Alcuin’s blue eyes widened; then, to Sophie’s dismay, he began to rise from his chair.

  “I should not advise kneeling, Magister,” said Gray. “You will find that Sophie does not much care for it.”

  * * *

  By the time they had done explaining matters to Master Alcuin, Sophie had come to another decision. “Gray,” she said firmly, “we must also tell your sister and brother-in-law. It is not fair to ask for their trust, and then to abuse it by withholding the truth.”

  He looked at her—doubtfully, it seemed—and fetched a sigh. “You are right, of course,” he said at last.

  Sophie stood—triggering a cacophony of scraping and clattering as her companions hastened to follow suit—and squared her shoulders, saying, “We had best get it over, then. Unless . . .” She looked from Gray to Master Alcuin, biting her lip. “Ought I to go alone? If—”

  “Of course not,” Gray said. He patted Sophie’s shoulder in a vague, kindly way and, opening the library door, waved her through before him. Master Alcuin followed her out, remarking, “Perhaps we should do better to suspend our study of battle magicks until tomorrow, when we are all feeling more composed.”

  Sophie stopped in her tracks and turned to gape at him. “Surely . . . surely we cannot learn battle magicks indoors, in a London house!”

  “Indeed,” Gray said, “that seems most inadvisable.”

  Master Alcuin looked pleased with himself. “But your sister, Marshall, thinks it most advisable that you both learn to defend yourselves, and has offered us the use of a cellar room for the purpose. I spoke to her on the subject this morning,” he added, “before breakfast; we have arranged it all between us.”

  “One of Master Alcuin’s few defects,” Gray remarked dryly, “is a propensity to be up and about when wiser folk are still abed. It is a fault he shares with my sister, alas.”

  They found the other ladies in the drawing-room, Jenny pottering about at the pianoforte while Mrs. Wallis darned stockings, and dispatched Joanna to fetch Sieur Germain. Mrs. Wallis put down her work and rose to demand of Sophie, sotto voce, what she was about; before any explanation or justification could be attempted, however, Joanna returned with Sieur Germain in tow, and Mrs. Wallis took her expression of alarm back to her seat.

  There was no knowing what tale Joanna had spun for their host. He was out of breath and looked anxious; when Master Alcuin murmured a warding-spell, his expression of anxiety deepened, and Jenny, too, began to look alarmed.

  “Sophie, dear, whatever is the matter?” the latter inquired. “You look very grim.”

  Sophie attempted a reassuring smile; even she was conscious of its not succeeding very well.

  * * *

  “We have not been entirely forthright,” Sophie began. She ought properly to look at her audience, but though she might have made herself meet Jenny’s eyes, to look at Sieur Germain was quite impossible.

  “That is . . . we have told you nothing but truth; but we have not—I have not—told all the truth. But I have decided—”

  “Think before you speak, Miss Sophia,” said Mrs. Wallis, with a meaning look.

  “I have thought, thank you.” Sophie’s fingers gripped the edges of the piano-bench on which she sat, as though she could somehow draw courage from the polished wood. “My mind is quite made up.”

  “There are other considerations, child! Think—is this wise?”

  “Perhaps not, but—”

  “Enough!” Sieur Germain thundered, making them all jump. “Miss Callender has something to say to us,” he went on, more moderately, “and anyone who does not wish to hear it may leave the room.”

  With a wary glance at him, Mrs. Wallis subsided.

  “I am very sorry, Sieur Germain, Lady Kergabet, for having deceived you, when you have been so kind and generous to us,” Sophie went on. “I hardly know where to begin . . .”

  “Begin at the beginning, Miss Callender,” Sieur Germain suggested patiently.

  Sophie laughed—a choked, horrible sound. “The beginning would be long in the telling,” she said, her gaze on the elegant pattern of the carpet at her feet, “but the end is that I am not Miss Callender, at all. I am—I am—”

  But she found she could not go on.

  The fraught silence of the drawing-room was stirred by a rustle of skirts, the sigh of upholstery released from someone’s weight, soft footfalls on the thick carpet. An arm gently encircled Sophie’s shoulders; on her other side, a large, warm hand clasped hers.

  “She is the lost Princess Royal,” said Jenny, to Sophie’s astonishment. “She whom we have heard so much talked of, since coming up to Town—the daughter of the vanished Queen Laora, whom His Majesty seeks so eagerly of late . . .”

  “You knew?” Sophie whispered.

  “I have still your father’s key-ring—your stepfather’s, that is.” Jenny raised her voice a little to be heard over the exclamations of her husband and brother. The two men fell silent, and her next words were spoken in the gentler tones Sophie knew: “When one scries an object more than once, things inscrutable may grow clearer, and the strongest emotions leave the most tangible impressions. When your stepfather came to Kergabet, he told us that he was seeking his daughter. But when last he used one of the keys on that key-ring in the door of his library in Breizh, he was locking it against his stepdaughter, and the shade of her mother, the—” Jenny’s voice faltered, and she continued apologetically, “the Breton harlot.”

  Sophie flinched and stole a glance at Mrs. Wallis; she was stony-faced but—perhaps resigned to Sophie’s indiscretion now that it was proved redundant—looked less splenetic than before.

  Sieur Germain opened his mouth, clearly about to take his wife to task for keeping this secret from him. Jenny silenced him with a look.

  “And Gray?” Sophie asked anxiously, catching at her hand. “Does my stepfather seek him? Does he suspect where we have gone?”

  “I cannot tell,” said Jenny. “I am sorry not to be of more use.” Head on one side, she regarded Sophie with a crooked smile very like her brother’s. “I ought to have seen long ago that you were not what you seemed,” she said. “You do honour to my house, Your Royal Highness, and you are most heartily welcome.”

  Sophie clasped her hands in the folds of her skirt, to hide their trembling. “The honour is mine,” she whispered.

  * * *

  The servants had poured the wine and handed the dishes, and Sieur Germain had dismissed them until the next remove, which seemed to signal a council of war. “I have been thinking,” he began, “what is best to do—”

  “We cannot do anything,” said Gray (unleashing on his brother-in-law, in the form of ill-mannered impatience, the frustrations and anxieties that preyed upon his mind), “without more information—”

  Jenny frowned at him, and he subsided. After a moment it occurred to him that this conversation would be much better carried out without benefit of listeners, and he drew up his magick and began to mutter a warding-spell.

  “I have been thinking what we had best do,” Sieur Germain repeated calmly, “if we are to have any hope of foiling a plot of whose form we have as yet no clear idea. Let us canvass what we do know. A conspiracy exists, which involves, at the least, four men: V
iscount Carteret; Appius Callender of Oxford; Callender’s comrade-in-arms, who may or may not be identical with the mysterious M; and W, whose identity we do not know, but whom we may assume to be close to His Majesty, or at any rate to the Court. We know also that at least one man has already fallen victim to this plot, and we can be fairly certain that his death was in the nature of a rehearsal for the true purpose of the conspiracy. What else?”

  “We believe,” said Gray, “that Lord Halifax was killed by means of a particularly arcane poison, which is intended to mimic the appearance of a natural death, and which requires considerable time and at least one ingredient that could not have been obtained except illicitly; from which I think we may conclude that, for some reason, the conspirators’ plan depends on creating that appearance of natural death. We believe that their purpose is treason and regicide, and we can, I think, be fairly certain that their plans, whatever they are, require the reappearance of the Princess Royal.”

  His throat was dry; after a swallow of wine he continued. “What we do not know is how they intend to administer the poison, or when, or where; we do not know what they hope to gain from their crimes, nor”—he could not keep the frustration from his voice—“nor do we know what they want Sophie for.”

  “I should imagine,” said Sophie, in a voice so tightly controlled that it seemed to cut across Gray’s skin like a blade, “that they still expect me to be their princess, and marry some elderly Iberian prince; or, if not that, then to marry someone else to whom my position and powers may be useful.”

  The idea of marriage so obviously repulsed her that Gray was almost ashamed to meet her gaze.

  “Even had we not the evidence of Carteret’s diary and his references to ‘the girl,’” said Sieur Germain, “everyone in London—and half the kingdom, very likely—has heard the rumours of the King’s irrational obsession with his lost child. A year ago the talk at Court was all of His Majesty’s desire to make common cause with the King of Alba against the claims of Eire, and his proposal to grant the Duke of Breizh and the barons in Cymru the same power as those of Maine and Normandie to levy taxes and militia, as Breizh’s border is equally threatened from the south—he was known to have had several acrimonious disagreements with Lord Carteret’s faction of the Council on those very points—but now—”