by Jane M. R.
“Fae magic is not Devil Magic. Wizards don’t recruit demons to do favors for us. Our magic comes straight from the source that gives life to every plant and creature.” Of course there is much more to it than that, but I am speaking with a side-show magician gypsy who probably doesn’t even know how to read.
He’s shaking his head, spooning stew into his mouth.
“You say the Faewraith will show up if all the Fae wizards are dead?” states the doyenne, nestling further into her blanket against the pillows on the floor.
“Yea. Tis why the Fae commissioned twenty wizards to guard this world to prevent their coming. It hast to be magic from the Fae. Devil Magic hast no such substance.”
“And because you are the last wizard, you’re going to shut yourself up in a hole to live forever?”
I can neither deny or admit, so I fill my mouth with warm stew instead.
“Maybe this Life you speak about refuses to give the world more wizards because they don’t have time to look for honorable men to hold the magic. If you do the footwork for them, maybe they will reconsider.”
I laugh at this. “I mighten as well go to the church right now and announce meself, because that tis what shall happen when I start asking people if they want to be Fae Wizards.”
“You could pull from gypsy camps.”
I look at the magician who sits up hopefully. “I sayeth honorable men. Nary men who compel to burn or knife someone with magic.” The magician sulks back and I’m certain I’ve made an enemy of him again of which doesn’t bother me in the least. “I dost nary mean to shoot down all thy ideas, but these are the truths of it.”
She nods. It’s well into the night and her eyes close. Her breathing begins to shallow and I soon believe she is asleep.
Very quietly, the magician tip toes barefoot closer to me where he hunkers down again, speaking softly so as not to wake her. “My father was a magician, as well as my grandfather. I understand the implications of commissioning a demon, but if you know what you are doing you can really get to high places and earn money for your services, like the magicians who work for the Illuminati. I’m trying to get good enough to where they will notice me.”
“Illuminati?”
“Oh. Sorry. I forgot you were… anyway, the Illuminati are a secret underground organization. There’s a lot of theories about them which no one can verify as being truth, so there really isn’t much I can tell you except for what I just did. I do know they have high level magicians and the magicians are paid as if it’s coming out of the queen’s own belly. Given what I’ve seen you do tonight, I don’t have any chance getting hired on by them. But… you do.”
I keep my chuckles quiet. So working as a wizard or otherwise must be done underground and in secret now. “I assume these Illuminati hath dealings in religion and politics?”
“I can’t verify that, but most certain they do.”
“I see. Still doesn’t solve the problem with Faewraith making a feast on humanity upon my death.” Not to mention the Fae guiding the wizards not to have any dealings with politics or religion.
“Well, maybe the Fae lied to you when they said the Faewraith would come if all of you were dead.”
“Yea. Maybe.” No. Absolutely.
“Would you like me to pass your name along? I know the Illuminati would be interested to at least speak with you. The twenty Fae Wizards had turned into legends and stories since it’s been so long. Your magic is far superior to even the Illuminati magicians who have the highest demons under their commission. They would love to have your services.”
Likely just to attempt to harvest my magic for themselves, but I don’t tell him that. “Nay. I need to worry about staying alive forever first just in case the Fae art telling the truth about the Faewraith.”
“Alright. You know where to find me if you change your mind. Just thought I’d let you know.” He stands up. Gathering both our empty bowls of stew, he pads out the door and closes it silently behind him.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
BRINELLA
Despite Zadicayn made the whole situation worse, I wish he was still here to bear my grandma’s continued ranting with me.
I’m mad at Zadicayn for showing up at the house even though I asked him to. I’m mad at him for coming with me to Bristol even though I would be dead or worse right now. I’m mad at him because now I have to pray that my grandparents die tomorrow since in no way can I bring the real Jaicom to meet them now. I only forgive Zadicayn for all of those because he acted out kissing me beneath my ear when a different kiss was expected by my grandmother. At least he’s honorable.
After grandmother is done washing me in accusations, she sends me up to my room to lay out and dry where I remain wide awake and staring at the ceiling.
Zadicayn arrives shortly after breakfast and it’s my grandmother who bustles out to kiss him on both cheeks. Zadicayn didn’t bring any luggage with him but he has acquired a small black bag. I imagine it is empty, but at least my grandmother won’t nag him about where his luggage is.
I’m in a bad mood and I really can’t place why, but I do everything I can to avoid looking at Zadicayn and hope he doesn’t touch me too much.
Once my grandfather is perched in his study, my grandmother tosses her white hair up into a sloppy chignon and hides it all under a bonnet. I scowl because she made me sit for an hour while her macramist curled and pinned up my hair and still hid it all under my bonnet. “You must look your best for Jaicom!” she had declared.
Zadicayn bows at the waist when I approach the foyer. “Miss Frondaren. How are yew this morning?”
“Fine.” My snappishness will be noticed. “How was the hotel?”
“Marvelous.” He holds out his arm and I take it, following his lead down the steps and to the carriage waiting on the street. He helps me in first and then assists my grandmother. Removing his hat, he climbs inside and closes the door, sitting next to me. I detect a faint hint of campfire smoke.
Zadicayn is very patient with my grandmother as she chatters enough to rival Tommy whom we left in my train booth we vacated. She’s forgotten I’m even there. Zadicayn actually seems to enjoy it, responding appropriately and asking questions of his own.
Winding through the tight streets, the coach arrives at a shop marked with, Chatwin’s Daguerreotype. I can’t fathom why we are here, but Zadicayn catches some cue I don’t and opens the door, stepping out to assist my grandmother and then me.
“Grandma,” I say as cheerfully curious as I can fake, “Why are we here?”
“Well, since we won’t make it to your wedding, I want a daguerreotype of you two.” And she’s back chatting with Zadicayn.
I wonder if anyone will notice if I just… vanish. Squeeze myself between the cobblestones beneath my heeled shoes. I might even fit in that gentleman’s watch pocket who just walked by.
“Come along Brinella!”
There are several things wrong with this. But if I have to pick one prayer for God to answer, please let it be that Zadicayn won’t make some public proclamation that freezing ones image onto a silver plate instead of having your visage painted, is magic.
We enter the shop and Zadicayn removes his hat. My grandmother swirls over to the daguerreotypist behind his desk. Zadicayn stops in his tracks as he looks around the room at all the pictures the daguerreotypist had taken, hanging on the wall and propped up at the large window. My prayers begin flying.
He steps backward so he’s standing beside me. “These art remarkable paintings. This man here wouldst be hired by the king!”
“They’re not paintings.”
He looks at me as if I’m the one who’s mistaken. He presses his face close to the picture immediately to his left. It’s of a boy and girl sitting side by side on a padded bench. “The likeness tis so… real. Tis as if their very souls art captured on canvass. How tis this painter not employed by the king now?”
My grandmother is still chatting with the daguerreotypist. I step cl
oser to him and whisper.
“They are called daguerreotypes. They are not paintings. That man has a… device that will freeze our very images onto a plate so we will look just like those children there.”
“Magic!”
Well, at least God answered the part about it not being a public proclamation.
“Devil Magic!”
“No.” I hiss back, trying to keep my whispering low. “No it’s not magic. It’s safe –”
“This man tis stealing souls!”
“Bloody priest, Zadicayn. No. He’s not stealing… let’s go outside.” I take his arm and throw my head over my shoulder. “We’ll be right back, grandma.”
The bell above the door chimes when we step onto the street.
“My soul tis nary going to be taken!”
“Zadicayn, it’s okay. It doesn’t steal souls.”
“He steals souls and binds them to those canvasses!”
I want to scream at him to stop being so foolish and laugh at him at the same time. Having his picture taken would probably equal to how I felt being magicked onto the roof of the train. How would I react if our roles were switched? Glories, back in his day people thought it was immoral to bath.
“No… no he doesn’t steal souls because he takes precautions to prevent that. You see… that’s why I brought this along.” I open my clutch and fish around for something to use. I end up drawing out two shillings. I hand him one and keep the other in my glove. “You hold onto that and it will fix your soul into your body so it won’t go anywhere.”
“Mildful! Ye hath worried me.” Relief sputters out of him and he wipes his forehead with his sleeve. “I tis sorry I reacted before ye explain. Now I feel foolish.”
“It’s okay. I know this is all so new for you. I’ve trusted you with certain things so now you need to trust me. That man in there is going to tell you to do things and you need to do them without question. You have to remember that this is normal for everyone so you have to act like it’s normal for you. I promise. This is all safe. I’ve had a daguerreotype of me taken already and I still have my soul.”
“Because ye hath held this coin?”
“Yes,” I say with great patience. “Because I held that coin.”
“A’right. I trust thee.” He takes a deep breath and opens the door for me. He must have been watching people yesterday to figure out how manners and chivalry work.
My grandma and the daguerreotypist are in the studio side of the shop. My grandma beckons us over. Zadicayn’s steps are a little more halted but at least he’s moving. A large painted canvass of green flocked wallpaper, half a window, and a curtain pulled back will be our backdrop. In front of this backdrop is a chair and desk.
“Have a seat, young man.”
Zadicayn fumbles with the collar on his frock coat and seats himself, seemingly not sure where to put his hands or feet.
“Miss Frondaren, stand partially behind him. There. Now put your left hand on his shoulder. Mr. Whaerin, relax a little and lean back in the chair. Your right hand flat on the desk top – okay okay, you can keep holding onto that shilling if you want. Okay that’s good.”
Zadicayn is doing well, following all instructions with no rebellion, save it be his tense shoulder I feel beneath my gloved fingers. I give him a couple squeezes to assure him I’m right there with him. I see his lips move and a sound I don’t recognize as being speech, but then I start to believe he might have cast a spell on himself. Likely to make sure his soul stays with him.
My grandma acts like she’s the one getting married again. “Oh, look at you! You make a handsome couple. It almost makes me want to drag Charles down here in his wedding suite so we can have another go at it ourselves.”
The daguerreotypist sneaks behind me and positions the neck clamp on the back of Zadicayn’s neck. The wizard gasps and jolts forward, spinning around.
“What tis this?”
“He’s never had his daguerreotype taken before,” I rush in to his rescue. “He’s just a little nervous.” I lean down to him, hoping I don’t gag on the next word I must say if anyone is going to believe our ruse. “Love, this is a neck clamp. It’s to hold your neck in place because you have to hold completely still otherwise the daguerreotype will turn out blurry.”
“I dost – do not want anything around my neck.” I can tell he tried to say that as a matter of a request, though his body is quivering and his shaking voice doesn’t help.
The daguerreotypist, however, backs the thin pole where is attached the neck clamp out of the way. “It’s quite alright. Mr. Whaerin is sitting down and is aware he must hold still.” He then shifts a posing stand against my back and affixes the apparatus to hug my ribs and the back of my neck. Zadicayn is still tense beneath my hand so I swirl my thumb against his coat and he relaxes a little.
The daguerreotypist retreats back to his apparatus. Adding liquid and powder to his device, he fiddles around with the lens before throwing a thick black blanket over his head and the box with the lens.
“Hold still now,” I murmur to Zadicayn. “This will take about ten minutes.” I reassure him with a minute thumb massage against his shoulder. I see his right hand on the desk clenched tightly around what must be the shilling.
My neck and shoulders start to ache after three minutes, and after about five more the daguerreotypist throws the blanket off him. “It’s done.”
I move with relief, Zadicayn slowly rising to his knees as if numb.
“I will have the daguerreotype framed and delivered to you,” the man says to my grandmother. “Thank you for your business.”
The chiming of the door opening is like a spell breaking for Zadicayn because he finally relaxes and hands my shilling back.
My grandmother treats us to lunch, where afterwards we end up at Marley’s and Birkham’s for all the wedding gifts my grandmother thinks I should have. I’m looking at a set of rose-printed china dishware when Zadicayn leans in really close next to me.
“Love, I prefer the castle painted cups.”
He’s enjoying this. Immensely. Marauding as my fiancé and doing better at convincing my grandmother than I am. My mood darkens.
“I want the rose,” I snip.
My grandmother is somehow standing right beside me. “I like the castle cups myself,” she says. “Rose reminds me of that awful perfume all the debutantes are commanded to wear. You can’t even smell the bread baking down the street because of it. Jaicom wants this, so I’ll buy it for him.”
I won’t look at Zadicayn to honor his smile. My grandmother is buying chinaware for me picked out by the man I am not marrying. Jaicom will likely have a fit when he sees them. Nothing screams, “I am a wild female with no care for reputation,” than castles printed on my dinner plate.
But that’s not the end of it. My grandmother must still be mad at me for trying to hide Zadicayn when I first arrived because she’s focusing more on what he wants.
We walk through the shop arm in arm while Zadicayn points at things and says, “That shall look dandy in my study. That shall look marvelous hanging beside the window in the drawing room.” (He’s even picked up a Modern English accent, which is highly annoying). “Would this look nice as a centerpiece for the table? I loveth how this dangles,” and on and on and so I walk out of that shop a proud owner of a wolf head stitched throw, blue silk couch pillows, a ceramic figurine of a Knights Templar, a painting of a hunt with walker hounds, a vase splattered with pink flowers, a book called History of Wars Throughout Europe, and a mahogany framed wall clock. I picked out the vase.
It’s all going to be delivered to my house some time before the wedding, I am assured. It doesn’t do any good to pray that I will be the only one home when the delivery arrives so I can bury it all so Jaicom won’t ever see it, because God seems to be finding amusement in my predicament. More likely, just to spite me, the delivery will get confused and go to Jaicom’s house with a note from the man saying the last wizard was marauding around as Jaic
om Whaerin and sabotaged my wedding gifts to fit his own pleasure. I might as well draft that note right now.
Now my grandmother and Zadicayn are giggling and whisper to each other as if they don’t want me to hear their jokes. So I tuck down into the corner of the coach and hold my cramping stomach while I look out the window, hoping I can make it back to my grandmother’s boudoir before I explode on some innocent bystander
We enter my grandparent’s house and I want nothing more than to hunker down like a soldier in a bunker for the rest of the night with no more communications with any forms of life, but dinner will be ready in a few minutes. Which gives me just enough time to dab my sweaty neck and arms with honeysuckle and make it to the dining room where my grandparents are seated and Zadicayn is waiting to pull my chair out for me.
Out of everyone in this house, Zadicayn is the one person I don’t want to be around right now. I’ve already decided prayers are useless so I just hope people won’t talk to me for the rest of the night. I feel like I’ve got needles coming out of my skin and a fist trying to punch out of my stomach. If I open my mouth, it’s all going to come out and someone is going to get hurt.
I sit down and he scoots my chair in before finding his own across from me.
My grandfather is stooped over his plate, his head bobbing with palsy. “Jaicom? Is that you?” If his voice had feet, they would be skipping in an up and down, sort of way.
“Yes, grandfather.”
“Hello, Jaicom. Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet ye to.” I see Zadicayn wince at the slip but my grandfather won’t care and my grandmother has yet to make a comment about it. Knowing her, she’ll assume he’s an avid reader of the bible, which is actually why Old English sounds the way that it does.
Luckily for Zadicayn – and myself – dinner will be an easy affair unlike our morning of having our daguerreotype taken. I’m just super glad that humans have been eating since before Christ was born so Zadicayn already knows how to do it.