When Suzie had announced the date, she had been very contrite. “I can’t keep apologizing, you know,” she said, with a shrug. “It wasn’t up to me, it was up to my lad’s parents and the padre and their church. That was the date that was available for everyone.”
“Everyone except your very good friends in the business,” Lionel grumbled. “Poor Jack will have to represent us all, since he’s the only one that could get a few hours off.”
“Well, you know you can come to the wedding breakfast, and it’s not going to harm a thing to skip the morning rehearsal,” Suzie countered. “It’s not as if you would really enjoy sitting through the ceremony, and you know it, you old pagan.”
“But I can’t make you and the groom vanish at the altar,” the magician protested, eliciting a giggle from both Suzie and Katie, since both knew that the groom’s parents, particularly his mother, would probably faint dead away if he did that. Not to mention that, short of arranging for a trap door at the altar, there was no way he could do that, even if they let him.
“Still bloody unfair,” Lionel muttered, causing Mrs. Buckthorn to rap his knuckles with the handle of her knife and exclaim “Language!”
“I’ll do the proper, Lionel, don’t worry,” Jack told him. “I even got my uniform cleaned and all the medals polished.”
They continued teasing Suzie all through the meal; she answered them back with plenty of amusement. Lionel enjoyed every minute of it, with a touch of melancholy. Suzie had been one of the best assistants he had ever had, barring the two that had been Elemental Mages themselves. He enjoyed her cheerful personality and he was going to miss her.
On the other hand, she clearly loved her “boy,” and her young man adored her. His family loved her too, and they had a good reputation in Brighton.
And it wasn’t as if she was going off to Australia or something of the sort. She would be right here, and would probably drop by to see how they were all getting on.
Still, this was the last time they would be together like this. He had made it clear that she and her new husband were invited to turn up for dark-day dinner whenever they chose, but that was hardly likely—well, except, perhaps, when winter came. Everything slowed down when the holidays were over, including custom at the oyster-houses.
“I really must go,” Suzie said at last, with regret. “Now you make sure you turn up for the wedding breakfast or I shall be really cross with you!”
Lionel gave Jack a quick glance, and Jack took the hint. “Katie and I have errands to run in Lionel’s trap—did you want us to take you anywhere? It’s pretty hot.”
But Suzie shook her head with a laugh. “The day I can’t walk to the seaside it would have to be hot enough to boil water.” She got up, and so did Jack. Katie followed suit. “Let’s all go and leave Lionel to wallow in sloth in his back parlor.”
“Wallow in sloth!” He feigned indignation. “I am going to be working on a new illusion in the workshop, I will have you know!”
“Well then, we’ll leave you to it,” Jack replied, and the three of them said goodbye to Mrs. Buckthorn and took their own way out, leaving him contemplating the table for a moment as Mrs. Buckthorn got up to clear it.
I hope Jack can trigger something in that girl, somehow, he mused. The sooner she realizes what she is, the safer we will all be. Having a Fire Mage that doesn’t know what she is about is a bit like having a bomb that has failed to explode sitting near you . . .
Then he shook himself out of his reverie and headed for the workshop. If Katie would just cooperate . . . he’d had an idea for a whole new act.
• • •
The little livery stable where Lionel kept his pony and trap was just at the edge of the range that was comfortable for Jack to walk in weather like this. The wooden leg made everything twice as hard as it had been when he was a whole man. But he wasn’t going to feel sorry for himself—not when it meant he had the company of Katie for the entire afternoon.
She had done up her black hair on the top of her head, though a few little tendrils had escaped and were curling around her face in a very attractive manner. She was wearing a white cotton dress of the sort he thought they called a “tea gown,” and a wide-brimmed hat. He thought she looked enchanting. You couldn’t recognize the little imp she played onstage in the lovely young lady walking slowly at his side as he stumped along.
He was wearing clothing suitable for running errands in the heat; nevertheless, he was mortally glad when they reached the livery stable. The little pony was lethargic and not particularly happy about being out, but Jack didn’t intend to push him, just let him amble along at his own pace. After all there was no hurry in these errands. It would be fine if they were done sometime around sunset.
Katie immediately went to the pony’s head, whispered in his ears, and scratched gently under his jaw. She kept this up for several minutes, and when she was done, the pony shook his head, and perked up, no longer looking so sullen.
She smiled at his odd look. “I’m a Traveler, remember?” she said—quietly enough that no one would overhear, because it was very likely anyone who did would have a severe prejudice against Travelers. “We’ve always had a way with horses.” Then she looked a little sad. “I miss Buttercup and Belle. I hope they’re all right.”
There wasn’t much he could say to that, so he just nodded sympathetically. “Would you rather drive?” he asked instead. Because it occurred to him that if she missed the horses, she might like to drive.
But she smiled, and shook her head. “If you’ve driven him before, he knows you on the reins.”
He helped her into the little cart, heaved himself in, and picked up the reins and clucked to the pony, and off they went at a nice slow amble.
“What’s his name?” Katie asked, as they kept to the side to let faster traffic pass.
“Paddy,” Jack told her. “Allegedly—at least, according to Lionel—he’s a Connemara pony from Ireland.”
Katie craned her neck a little, and examined the pony from her seat as the little fellow ambled along, all good nature now.
“You know, I think he is,” she said at last. “Mostly, anyway. He has the temper and the personality. Connemara ponies are often white or gray, but I’ve seen duns and bays.”
Well, if anyone would know it would be a Traveler, he assumed. She made clucking noises and laughed to see the pony’s ears flick back to listen to her.
When they got to the first shop, before he could do more than pull the pony up at the front, she turned to him. “Just tell me what you want,” she said. “I’ll run in and get it, and you take Paddy around to where there’s shade.”
“That’s a kindly offer for both of us, and I’ll take you up on it,” he replied, with surprised gratitude. He simply handed over his money to her, gave her the list, and took Paddy around the corner while she jumped down and stepped into the shop.
He soon learned that there was another advantage to having her do his shopping. She was in and out much faster than he would have been, and that was after allowing for his missing leg. It was very clear that being a pretty girl meant that shopkeepers—male ones, anyway—attended to her very quickly indeed. The afternoon wasn’t even over before she had taken care of his errands and Lionel’s too.
So they made one more stop, got some bottled lemonade, and gave Paddy a bit of a treat by driving out along the road beside the seashore. The air was much cooler here, and the pony perked up considerably. When they found a good place to pull over, within sight of the ocean, but with some shade trees and a bit of a stream winding down to the ocean, they did.
Jack would have left Paddy harnessed up, but Katie took that out of his hands, swiftly unharnessing the pony, removing his bit, but tethering him so he could graze beside them under the shade and still be in reach of the stream. He cropped lazily at the turf, or took a few mouthfu
ls of water, while they spread out rugs and a couple of cushions to sit on to keep her white frock from getting spoilt by grass stains and drank their lemonade.
He told her stories of being in Africa. The good ones, not the ones with bad memories attached. Like the time one of his mates got a mad notion for milk in his tea, and nothing would dissuade him from trying to find some. How he went out, day after day, as they patrolled the rail track, and how finally, one day, he came back triumphant with a goat he’d bought from one of the tribes.
“Oh don’t tell me!” she laughed, as he described the little cockney Tommy being pulled along by a half-wild African goat that had its own notion of where it wanted to be. “He bought a billy!”
“No, they took pity on him, they sold him a nanny, but not so much pity that they sold him a nice nanny,” Jack chuckled. “They sold him the meanest, most cross-tempered old goat I ever saw in my life. Another lad and I that had some country upbringing showed him how to milk her, but you had to truss up her head tight, and keep one hind leg off the ground when you did it, and half the time she still got bites and kicks in on you. He lost more milk than he ever got, what with her kicking over the pail all the time, but he had milk for his tea, by Jove!”
She told him stories of roaming with her parents, before they joined a circus. Of flitting through the forest like a little fairy when they camped, learning how to creep up so quietly on a hare that she could almost touch it before it bolted. He wondered if she had ever seen Elementals as a child. It wasn’t unusual for those with the magic to do so—though as they got older, they often repressed the memories.
He couldn’t tell if she had; if she was editing her recollections, it wasn’t obvious. But he could practically see the wild little thing in his mind’s eye, her hair all loose, wearing one of her Pa’s shirts as a frock with a ribbon around the waist, feet innocent of shoes, as she scampered along forest paths, gorging on berries, gathering nuts, making dolls out of leaves and twigs and bunches of grass. The Elementals would have been enchanted by her. They loved children, and the good ones always worked hard to protect a child from the bad ones.
“Half the time I came back with my hair full of leaves and flowers and feathers I’d stuck in, and my poor Ma would spend an hour untangling it and combing it all out,” she said, leaning back on her elbows and watching the waves lap on the shingle a few yards away. “She was always afraid I’d try swimming in a pond and drown, but I never did.”
“Try swimming, or drown?” he asked, teasingly.
“Both.” She shrugged. “I like a nice hot bath, as does anyone, but I never learned to swim, and I never wanted to. That’s not that unusual among Travelers.” But she shivered a little, and he knew why.
He nodded. Exactly what I would expect from a Fire Mage. Generally you can’t get them to swim under less than a death threat, and sometimes not even then. Water was the inimical Element for Fire, after all, as Earth was for Air.
Eventually they ran out of conversation just as the heat got just short of oppressive. Thinking slowed, as if Jack’s thoughts were pushing through treacle. Paddy the pony found eating grass to be too much work, had another long drink from the stream, and laid himself down on the turf. Jack found himself staring mindlessly at the ocean for a good long while, and when he finally looked over at Katie, she was doing the same. Fire Mage though he was, he had always found the sound of the waves soporific.
He wasn’t sweating at all, of course. He rarely did. That was one of the little gifts of being a Fire Mage.
“Was it this hot in Africa?” she asked, finally.
“Hotter,” he replied. “The trick is not to fight it. You sort of accept it, let the heat become a part of you.” At least, Fire Mages did that. The trick probably didn’t work for anyone else. But for the Fire Mage, any source of heat was a source of energy, and short of being shoved into a fire—and often not even then—it never did them any harm.
“Actually,” she said thoughtfully, “That doesn’t sound all that difficult. I always liked the summer, and being warm. It was winter that was hard for me. If I could have wormed myself right into the stove in the caravan, I would have.”
“It’s still like that for me,” he told her. “Winter nearly kills me, every year. My housekeeper is a good sort, like Mrs. Buckthorn; she always tucks three hot bricks into my bed before she goes to bed, so it’s warm when I get there, or the walk back from the theater would undo me.”
He was feeling lazy, but not uncomfortable. He was in that state that his old mates used to call “baking like a lizard on a rock,” with envy. He waited, glancing over at her sideways, now and again, to see if she would manage it. Because if she did, she would be that much closer to realizing her power.
He actually saw it happen; not so much a change in her expression as an over-all sense of relaxation that became pleasure. Like the moment when you have been sick, and suddenly aren’t, and can relax and enjoy the sort of pleasurable release that just having been freed from illness brings with it. Or when you have been fighting to get something accomplished, and finally manage it, and can bask in the feeling of getting it done.
“Oh,” she said, with mild surprise. “This is . . . lovely, actually. I think I used to do this when I was a child. I don’t ever remember being hot when I was little, at any rate.”
“You’ll get better at it,” he promised. “I used to march all day with a bloody great pack on my back, whilst my mates were dropping like they’d been poleaxed. After a while, even when we’re doing a matinee and the footlights are blazing up at you, and the limelight blazing down, you still won’t feel anything but comfortable. Africa was not bad for me, that way.”
“Do you miss it?” she asked. “Africa, I mean.”
He shook his head. “No, it’s too alien, and too barren. I’m sure the natives love it, but that’s their home. When I think of home, I think green fields. My mates, I miss.” He thought a little more. “Mind, there were some good moments there. And there’s a . . . a strange kind of beauty about that part of the world. When the sun sets, and the mountains are aglow as if they’re on fire . . . with the sky above them like the heart of an emerald, and the flats below a dark sea of velvet purple . . .” He sighed. That—yes, that he missed, missed dreadfully. There was no violent, gorgeous, fiery equivalent in England, except on very rare occasions. The “red sky at night” that allegedly was the “sailor’s delight.”
“But the loneliness was enough to murder a man,” he continued. “It was you and your mates, and nothing but desert, a few natives, and once in a while, a train howling through. And once or twice a week, one of them trains stopping to toss off your mail, your supplies, and the papers. If the lads were married, and some of them were, their wives would ride out on the train just for a few minutes of talk. Imagine that . . . seeing your wife for only a few moments a week, and then all alone with the heat and the beasts and sometimes, rarely, some fighting.”
There was long silence, then. “That sounds . . . rather like torture,” she said, finally, and when he looked over at her, she was shaking her head. “I can’t even imagine it. I mean, us Travelers spend all our lives right in each other’s laps. We never get away from each other and never want to.”
He sighed. “It wasn’t so bad for me. I never had a sweetheart, and I’ve always been a bit solitary. But, it was still bad. Men aren’t meant to live like that. Sometimes they go peculiar.”
“Peculiar” was a polite way to put it. Some turned slovenly and slack. Some became even more rigid and tightly regimented than if their officer was a martinet. Some you could hear sobbing quietly when the shift was supposed to be sleeping. And once in a while, a man would just run off, never to be seen again.
“No . . . I don’t think I miss it all that much,” he concluded. Then chuckled. “Though this summer, it seems Africa misses me.”
She laughed at that, and di
dn’t ask any more questions about his service.
Finally the sun began going down at their right hands, the air had begun to cool at last, and it was time to harness Paddy up and begin the slow ramble back to Brighton. They weren’t in a great hurry, and neither was Paddy. He’d eaten enough of the tough seaside grass to content him and he wasn’t particularly anxious for his hay. His hooves made a nice even clopping on the hard road; Jack had thought about driving him back along the sea to help him stay cool, but this pace wasn’t making him sweat, so they stayed on the road.
It was dark, and just about time for the fireworks, as they neared the Pier. And now, Jack had a bit of a quandary. Should he take the pony back to the stable, then both of them walk to the Pier? Or should he find a boy to hold the pony?
The quandary was solved when, as they passed the point where people were starting to gather for the view, he spotted a boy he actually knew, one of the lads that ran errands at the music hall. The young fellow was already holding two horses, and was perfectly happy to hold Paddy for a couple of pennies. Problem solved. The purchases were securely stowed under the seats behind a bit of a plank door and could not be seen, so there was no need to worry about theft from the trap, either.
Jack offered Katie his hand, but she barely needed it, alighting from the trap with an ease he envied. They joined the slowly gathering crowd at the edge of the water who were preparing to enjoy the nightly show. Vendors moved among them with trays suspended from their necks that held cones of fairy floss and bags of nuts, lemonade and beer, boxes and bags of sweets. Jack got another lemonade for each of them, but he knew from experience that after baking in the sun all day, no Fire Magician was ever going to be tempted by snacks. The heat and light from the sun itself seemed to replenish those whose Element was Fire.
Having lived here as long as he had, he knew where the best places to view the fireworks were, and they weren’t where the majority of the visitors had gathered. Of course, the majority of the visitors were chary of going too far down on the beach; they couldn’t see well there, despite the illuminations, and they didn’t know the tides. Visitors were always afraid of wetting their shoes and spoiling the leather with salt water. He did know the tides, and he also knew the trick of looking for where the pebbles reflected light—that was where the waves had washed them. He took Katie’s elbow and guided her down to the shoreline. The tide was going out; if they stood right where the pebbles were wet, they’d get the best view and not have to worry about getting washed by a wave.
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