by Zen Cho
“I ought not to tell you—it is as much as my position is worth—but I am a friend to magic, little though magic may believe it,” said Edgeworth. He seemed to arrive at a decision, and continued, with more assurance:
“To own the truth, I brought the sultan to you in hope that you might put it in my power to do the Society a favour. The Government has grown doubtful of the utility of continuing to support the Society—the Society benefits, as you know, from various emoluments, and has not paid a penny in rent in hundreds of years. You cannot conceive what anxious attention the Government gives every farthing in these difficult times, and the Treasury has been pushing for a removal of the Society’s privileges for an age.
“Now, I do not know how the laity got wind of the Society’s difficulties—I never breathed a word of them—but there are those within the Government who have a notion that it may no longer be such a risk to offend Britain’s magicians. It is proposed that we require a Fellow of the Society to demonstrate the measurement of atmospheric magic levels at the Spring Ball, when everyone who is anyone will be in attendance, and the results could not be concealed. If what the Government suspects is proved—if English magic is shown to be no more than a bogey to frighten children with—why, then, it will feel at liberty to do what it can to make savings.
“And you may trust that that will be done,” concluded Edgeworth. “So long as thaumaturgy clings to its famous independence, and refuses to lift a finger for King and country. I ought not to have told you even so much, but I wished you to understand why it is vital that the Society oblige the Government for once, even if it never did before.”
He looked at Zacharias with unfeigned earnestness—but it was, thought Zacharias, no great surprise that Edgeworth should be earnest, since in his view the Society’s good was bound up with his own advantage.
Zacharias could not agree. It was the Sorcerer Royal’s duty above all to serve his country, and that overrode any other obligation, including any he owed to the Society. Even if it might help the Society’s position for Zacharias to attack Janda Baik’s witches on the Government’s behalf, it could not be thought of, when weighed against the risk of provoking the French.
If Zacharias agreed to one harebrained scheme proposed by the Government, founded on what was very like blackmail, it would be only the first of many. And his compliance would not address the root of English thaumaturgy’s difficulties: its want of magic.
It was clear what he must do. His dismay fell away. He said:
“I am afraid we must disappoint you. Though I am loath to disoblige the Government, I would rather risk its offence than offer France’s sorcieres an invitation to join the war. I am obliged for your confidence in me, however, and you may trust it has not been misplaced.”
Edgeworth took his umbrella from the stand in icy silence.
“Then I do not see that there is any need for me to detain you,” he said. “I will see you at the Spring Ball, I suppose.”
“If I return in time,” said Zacharias. At Edgeworth’s look of surprise, he added, “I am leaving town tomorrow, though I shall try my best to attend the Ball, of course.”
“I should have thought you were so taken up with your duties that you could not spare any time for rusticating,” said Edgeworth, all freezing astonishment.
“It is my duties that call me out of London,” said Zacharias, but Edgeworth’s suspicious expression spurred him on to add, “I am going to address a school of gentlewitches, in fact. The headmistress is a great friend of the Threlfall family.”
“It is no great odds,” said Edgeworth, losing interest at such a tediously unexceptionable reason for a trip. “You will hear what occurs at the Ball whether you are there or not. I expect there will be a great deal of talk of it this year.”
“There always is,” said Zacharias tranquilly.
But England’s crisis of magical resource would not be one of the subjects talked of if Zacharias had anything to say to it. He would travel to Fobdown Purlieu, to the border that separated Britain from Fairyland. As Fairy was the source of Britain’s magic, so it must be the source of its difficulties—and where he might find a solution.
He had hoped to have more time to perfect his spells for extracting magic from the border, but the experiment could not wait. By the time the Society opened its doors for its annual Spring Ball, it would have sufficient magic with which to dazzle all its guests, even the most fastidious, most disbelieving representatives of Government. Zacharias would see to that.
4
TWO DAYS BEFORE the Sorcerer Royal was due to arrive at Mrs. Daubeney’s School for Gentlewitches, Prunella Gentleman was shaken awake at four in the morning. Mrs. Daubeney stood over her, holding a taper aloft and looking like Lady Macbeth in a lace cap.
“Prunella, the worst has come to pass!” she said in a tragical whisper. “He is come!”
A zephyr had knocked upon Mrs. Daubeney’s window to inform her that the Sorcerer Royal’s journey had proceeded more swiftly than expected. He would be upon them, not in two days, but—that very morning!
“I do not see that it makes any great odds,” said Prunella, in no very complaisant spirit. She was no lark in any event, and Mrs. Daubeney had woken her at an unpropitious time. The night before the schoolgirls had fallen to talking of the parties and balls they had been to, or glimpsed through the banisters, at home. As a result Prunella had been dreaming of improbable glories: herself, dressed enchantingly, wafting around a glittering ballroom upon the arm of a faceless gallant.
Waking brought with it the reminder that she had been up till midnight the night before, not dancing, but polishing the silver at Mrs. Daubeney’s insistence. The cold dark of early morning scored into Prunella’s bones how unlikely it was that she would ever see a ballroom or go to a dance, save in her dreams.
Only her affection for Mrs. Daubeney enabled her to suppress her impatience and moderate her impulse to snap. She said mildly, “I am sure the school has never been so clean, and all the girls have been told what they must say and how they must look, and Clara has practised her curtsey a thousand times, and told she must not lisp when she gives Mr. Wythe his posey. There is scarcely anything more to be done, and Cook will be sure to have something to set on the table—she has been deep in preparations for weeks.”
“But Prunella, think of the state of the attics!” said Mrs. Daubeney. “You know I said we should be sorry if we did not make haste to clear out the attics, and now here we are, with the Sorcerer Royal nearly upon us, and the attics uncleared!”
It was a curious contradiction that even as the rest of England languished for want of magic, the school was afflicted with more than it knew what to do with. Being a school for gentlewitches, it did not, of course, instruct its students in practical thaumaturgy. Mrs. Daubeney knew just what parents desired her to inculcate in their inconveniently magical daughters: pretty manners, a moderate measure of education and, above all, a habit of restraint.
But despite the mistresses’ vigilance, they could not prevent forty high-spirited girls from breaking out in spells on occasion, and the garrets, tucked away beneath the roof and rarely visited, were an ideal location for mischief. A scent of leftover chantments lingered always about the attics, making the more susceptible servants sneeze as they passed.
“I am sure no one has looked in the attics for years, and there is bound to be some dreadful spell or talisman hidden there by one of the girls,” Mrs. Daubeney continued. “That is just what I should do if I were a careless girl, with no notion of the trouble I was likely to cause.”
“But I do not see why it should cause any trouble, even if it were true,” Prunella objected. “The Sorcerer Royal is only here for half a day, and he will hardly wish to see our attics.”
“Prunella, I am surprised at you!” cried Mrs. Daubeney. “Do not you realise the Sorcerer Royal’s visit may be the making of this establishment? He is acquainte
d with every thaumaturge in England, and need only say a word to persuade them that they should send their daughters to this school. Only consider what Mr. Wythe would think of us if he smelt magic from the attics! Like as not he would insist on going up to see them, and stumble upon some magical hoard left by an old girl! Then he will accuse us of harbouring witches, and the girls’ parents will take them away, and we shall have to sell the building and send away the servants, and we will end our days in the poorhouse!”
Prunella flung off her sheet. “If that is to be the consequence, I suppose I had better clean the attics!”
“Blessed girl!” said Mrs. Daubeney, brightening. “I don’t know what I would do without you. You will know just what to do to rid us of these emanations. I need not worry about you, I know, where magic is concerned.”
Prunella was accustomed to Mrs. Daubeney’s swiftly changing moods. Still, it is provoking to be told you must clean an attic within half a day, to which you had intended to devote a week. When Henrietta Stapleton found her in the attic, Prunella was too hot and vexed to receive with patience the news that Miss Liddiard had retreated to bed, felled by an illness. Miss Liddiard taught the eldest class, and it was inconsiderate of her to be poorly on this of all days.
“A plague on all Miss Liddiards, and all Sorcerers Royal!” said Prunella.
“I am sure Miss Liddiard would rather not be ill, Prunella,” said Henrietta in a tone of mild reproof. “She has a horror of giving trouble.” At seventeen Henrietta was as good as out, and really too old for the school, but she had been sent back for another term by her mamma, who fretted about her continuing tendency to levitate in her sleep.
“But that is just what she is doing,” said Prunella. She had stubbed her toe twice already, and been alarmed by the appearance of the largest rat she had ever seen. She would not mind a return to bed—not that anyone would offer her the opportunity! “A female may be poor or delicate or a spinster, but it does seem ill-advised of Miss Liddiard to combine all three.”
This was an indelicate way for a young female to talk, but Henrietta was accustomed to the wild things Prunella said. It seemed to the schoolgirls that Prunella had been with the school forever: darting from Mrs. Daubeney’s boudoir to the kitchen, chivvying the little ones through their baths, and substituting for the mistresses at times.
They were puzzled to describe her position whenever their parents took notice of the pretty, well-spoken girl who was Mrs. Daubeney’s shadow. Prunella was not quite a servant, though she was as likely to be sent out to buy a black pudding for Mrs. Daubeney’s dinner as to take a cup of tea with the headmistress. Nor did she seem to be any relation of Mrs. Daubeney’s, for though they were both dark, Mrs. Daubeney’s was a thoroughly English darkness, while Prunella’s clear brown skin spoke of foreign antecedents.
When questioned Mrs. Daubeney only said, “Oh, her father was a friend of the family. Poor Gentleman, he died when she was still a babe, and entrusted her to my care.” But she would not be drawn any further, and Prunella was as ignorant of her own origins as any of the girls.
That there was a special connection between the headmistress and Prunella everyone knew, however, and Henrietta looked at her hopefully. “Could not you speak to Mrs. Daubeney? She is so busy with the Sorcerer Royal I do not like to trouble her, but I know she intends to show us to him, and it will look so bad for us to lack an instructress.”
“Show you to him? What does she mean to show?”
“We are to demonstrate the Seven Shackles,” explained Henrietta. “Mrs. Daubeney thinks the exercise will make a remarkable impression upon the Sorcerer Royal. She says no other school makes its girls perform it.” Henrietta made a face. “I wish we did not have to! It makes one feel so cotton-woollish and good for nothing.”
Prunella shook her head.
“I am under strict orders to keep out of the Sorcerer Royal’s way,” she said. “I could not speak to Mrs. D without attracting Mr. Wythe’s attention—that is, I suppose I could make myself invisible, but likely he would see through that, and Mrs. Daubeney wishes me to stay away precisely because I am too magical! The class will simply have to amuse itself, Henny, and demonstrate its Shackles without Miss Liddiard’s guidance. The girls are all old enough to know how to behave themselves.”
“I would not be so sure,” said Henrietta darkly, but she rose to leave. “I hope Mrs. Daubeney may not scold Miss Liddiard. She was dreadfully cut up, and kept insisting she would stay, but she was so pale we were all afraid she would do herself an injury.”
“If good nature were all that were needed, no one could object to Miss Liddiard,” said Prunella. “But a female making her own way in the world requires more than that to get on!”
This exchange with Henrietta left Prunella rather solemn. Despite her cross words she liked Miss Liddiard, and her position struck Prunella as pitiable in the extreme. Miss Liddiard was not strong, and the solitary life of a schoolmistress, with its tedious routine and its innumerable little snubs, did not suit her. But her father had bequeathed her nothing but his own uncertain constitution upon his death; it was necessary for her to earn her own bread.
If she were a man she might be a thaumaturge, and employ her magical abilities to good purpose. Since she was a female of gentle birth, however, she could not, in propriety, employ her magical talent to any purpose. If she could not marry, her best hope of establishing herself lay in teaching other females afflicted with magical ability how best to avoid using it.
From Miss Liddiard’s position it was a natural progression for Prunella to consider her own, for this subject occupied an ever greater part of her thoughts as she grew older. She had always been set apart from the schoolgirls, even as she had passed her life among them. The fact that she remained at the school only at Mrs. Daubeney’s sufferance would have ensured this in any event, but the distance was increased by the colour of Prunella’s skin, the cast of her features, and the likelihood both suggested that her mother had been a native.
Mrs. Daubeney had not separated Prunella from the others by any deliberate measure. As a child Prunella had attended lessons, played and dined with the schoolgirls, and she had scarcely noticed the difference between their position and her own.
At nineteen, however, Prunella was no longer quite a girl. The older girls’ tales of their families and dreams for their futures brought her own prospects into stark relief. No chance of a glittering Season in London or a grand marriage for Prunella. For as long as she wished she might stay with Mrs. Daubeney, and do everything desired of her for no wages, but that was as much as she might look forward to in the coming years.
Of course, if she were patient and tractable, there was a chance she might inherit Mrs. Daubeney’s worldly possessions, but: I am the most impatient, intractable creature I know! thought Prunella.
In her reverie she might easily have missed the valise, for she was bundling things into chests without stopping to examine them. But as Prunella gathered another armful of objects she felt leather under her fingertips, and a curious sensation came over her.
She thought she stood, not in the familiar dusty attic, but in a different room altogether. A room in an alien land, for though it was dark and cool she knew somehow that it was a blazing-hot day outdoors. She felt the grit of dust between her teeth. The very air smelt different, perfumed with foreign scents—warm air, sluggish water, and earth baking under the sun.
“There you are!” said a soft voice. Though Prunella longed to see who it was, she could not raise her eyes, struggle as she might. The things in her arms clattered to the floor. She wrenched her gaze up, and saw—
Nothing. She was alone in the attic, stupefied with magic.
“Oh!” said Prunella. She put her hands over her eyes. She felt as if she had lost something terribly important, though she could not say what it was. For a moment she feared, absurdly, that she might cry. Then she remembered th
e touch of leather beneath her fingers.
On the floor, jumbled with split embroidery hoops and a stuffed owl, was a valise. It was made of brown leather, scuffed and worn as though it had been much used, though Prunella could not recall ever having seen it in Mrs. Daubeney’s possession. There were initials engraved upon it: HRG.
“Was not my father’s name Hilary?” said Prunella, and started at the sound of her voice echoing in the empty room.
“Prunella!” said Henrietta behind her.
Prunella jumped. Acting on an unexamined impulse, she hid the valise under a dusty old piece of tarpaulin. She was inclined to snap when she turned to greet Henrietta, but she forgot her irritation when she saw the girl’s anxious face.
“Why, what’s amiss?” she said.
“Emily Villiers and Clarissa Midsomer are quarrelling,” said Henrietta. “I hate to play the informer, but you know what Clarissa is like, and she is so cross I believe she would not stop at murder. She has bit Emmy!”
“Wretched creatures! I hope they may bite each other’s heads off!” Prunella exclaimed, but she divested herself of her apron. “If the Sorcerer Royal arrives while I am there, you will simply have to distract him, Henny. I declare there are times I do not know if I am in a school or a travelling circus!”
• • •
WHEN Prunella entered the classroom, Clarissa Midsomer was trying to bang Emily Villiers’s head against a desk. Emily was resisting this, screeching in a manner fit to bring the ceiling down.
“That is quite enough of that!” said Prunella, pushing between the combatants.
She was no taller or sturdier than Clarissa or Emily, and they were neither of them inclined to attend. Yet after a moment’s confusion they found their struggle suddenly at an end, and themselves on opposite sides of the desk.
“What can you be thinking, to be brawling on the very day of the Sorcerer Royal’s visit?” demanded Prunella.
Clarissa looked away haughtily. She was one of the few girls who would not condescend to address Prunella as an equal, and she clearly believed it beneath her dignity to respond. Prunella was used to such snubs, however, and she looked at Emily.