03 The Mislaid Magician

by Patricia C. Wrede

  There was a stunned silence. At last James said, "Does the duke know about this?"

  "Lord Wellington? Of course. I went to him right away," Mr. Wrexton said. "He verified my results himself, and some of his comments were extremely insightful. The College lost a great wizard there, when he chose to devote himself to public service, though of course he's still a member."

  There was another pause. After a moment, Mr. Wrexton went on. "Morris was quite as capable as Lord White of demonstrating the spell and its effectiveness. It's how he persuaded Cromwell to meddle with the ley lines."

  Aunt Elizabeth hmphed again. "I'll wager they hoped to make their version of Parliament proof against change," she said.

  Mr. Wrexton nodded. "Morris had been doing some experiments on his own. He thought he'd learned enough to manipulate the artificial ley lines himself, so as to change the pattern and make it do what he and Cromwell wanted. They planned to begin by controlling one or two of the larger ley lines that Morris thought were keys to the spell and then redirect others to solidify the changes they wanted. Lord White found out and sent his notes, maps, and information to the Royal College just before he was caught and killed."

  "And by the time anyone looked at it, Cromwell was in charge and the Royal College was keeping out of politics," James said. "I'll hazard a guess that someone misfiled those documents deliberately."

  Mr. Wrexton nodded. "The archivist at the time thought a record should be kept, and disapproved heartily of the crew of magicians Cromwell had collected to help him. He knew Cromwell would order the documents confiscated if word of them got out, so he made sure that it didn't."

  "A little too sure, perhaps," Aunt Elizabeth said.

  "Fortunately, the process of controlling and redirecting ley lines proved to be longer and more difficult than Morris expected. He and his magicians were only about a quarter of the way through when Oliver Cromwell died."

  "The ley line under Haliwar Tower!" I said. "The Webbs said that the tower was built in Cromwell's day. That ley line is one of the keys, isn't it?"

  "So Morris's map indicates," Mr. Wrexton said. "It was one of the first to be altered."

  "And now the railway is affecting it every time a steam train passes across it," I said.

  "But affecting it how?" James asked.

  "The train is the least of the matter," Mr. Wrexton said. "I don't think it's an exaggeration to say that tampering with the ley spell could result in chaos. I don't mean simply bringing down the current government; I mean having it fall apart altogether. And Wellington thinks that someone's been deliberately tampering."

  "Recently?" Aunt Elizabeth said. "This can't be some relic of Cromwell's nonsense?"

  "Within the last five years," Mr. Wrexton said. "The resonance traces were quite clear, once we realized we should look for them."

  "Who?" said James. "And why?"

  Mr. Wrexton spread his hands. "If we knew, things would be much easier to sort out."

  "And how are they doing it?" I added. "From everything I've read, it is exceedingly difficult to tap the power of ley lines safely, and this sounds like considerably more than mere tapping." A thought occurred to me, and I straightened in my chair and nearly spilt my tea. "Earthquakes! Tapping ley lines can cause earthquakes, I remember, and one of them runs directly under Haliwar Tower! James, you don't suppose..."

  "I try not to reason in advance of my data," James said in a dry tone. "But I admit, the coincidence bears looking into."

  I considered everything we had just heard for a moment. Then I looked at Mr. Wrexton. "And do you mean to say that all this important information has been hidden in the archives at the Royal College of Wizards for a hundred and fifty years, or more, and no one noticed?" I said. "That is appalling!"

  But appalling or not, that is the case exactly, Kate. And Lord Wellington, via Mr. Wrexton, wishes James and me (and Mr. Wrexton and Aunt Elizabeth, thank goodness) to "see what we can do about it."

  This entire situation could have been avoided if anyone in the past hundred years had bothered to clean out the archives at the Royal College. Or if the college had paid proper attention to what its wizards were up to. And it is most annoying to be caught out like this, just when we were on our way back to London. For of course, we cannot say no, under the circumstances.

  So today James is making arrangements for the lot of us to return to the vicinity of Haliwar Tower, and Mr. Wrexton and Aunt Elizabeth are trying to make poor Herr Magus Schellen more comfortable. I shall go shopping. Leeds may not have the variety available in London, but its weavers are second to none. If I am to miss the Season altogether on Lord Wellington's business, I intend to have a few good lengths of merino and linen to show for it, at least.

  I will confess, in your ear alone, Kate, that I am not so thoroughly displeased by this development as I might have been. For while it is most aggravating to have all our plans overturned like this, I cannot be sorry that we shall have a chance to unravel all these mysteries completely, instead of simply turning Herr Magus Schellen over to the Royal College and hoping they remembered to let us know what happened. Aunt Elizabeth is quite right; official reports never contain the details one is particularly interested in knowing.

  I need not caution you to share this information with Thomas alone. (If he asks, you may tell him that Mr. Wrexton approved my providing it to you both, and also highly commends our caution in making our letters unreadable.) You can imagine the possible difficulties if any of this were to become known.

  Pray convey my apologies to the children. I hope they will not make your life a misery with their disappointment. I am much afraid that my only hope of redemption in their eyes will be to bring them back a sheepdog after all (though of course not the Herr Magus!). That would put the cap on this whole misadventure, to be sure.

  Your most annoyed,

  Cecy

  MAY

  1 May 1828

  Wardhill Cottage, Darlington

  (in cipher)

  My dear Thomas,

  You will by this time have been apprised of our latest change in plans. I delayed writing so as to provide you with our new direction, in the certainty that my dear Cecelia would pour out the entire business to Kate early on, who would doubtless inform you of the salient details.

  Our entire menage—myself, Cecelia, the Wrextons, and our much-tried surveyor-turned-sheepdog, together with assorted servants—are currently ensconced in a rented property in Darlington, it having proved impossible to arrange satisfactory quarters for so many, with such peculiar requirements, at any of the local inns. Assuage whatever disgruntlement you feel over this turn of luck by dwelling on the difficulties of finding a suitable place and settling the arrangements in less than a day—the job fell to me, as Wrexton was naturally busy with the spell on the sheepdog. I shall spare you the details. I'm sure your imagination is up to the challenge.

  We chose Darlington for two main reasons: First, it is as near to Goosepool (and the stone circle called the Dancing Weans, where we discovered the sheepdog) as is Stockton, which will make Wrexton's work on de-transforming Herr Schellen simpler, and second, Darlington is the home of the Stockton and Darlington Railway offices, which I mean to investigate next.

  Once disenchanted, our sheepdog-surveyor will no doubt clear up a good many puzzles, but Wrexton's news about the possible effect of the ley lines on the stability of the government has cast the whole situation in a far more serious light. Since nothing in the Herr Magus's background indicates that he is an expert on ley lines, and since neither Wrexton nor his wife is more than normally acquainted with ley theory, I am considering calling in a specialist.

  Unfortunately, Wrexton says that the greatest living expert on ley lines is an Irishman, one Sean Skelly by name, who has persistently refused to have anything to do with the Royal College, or, indeed, anything or anyone English. I believe, however, that I have a possible solution to the problem.

  You remember that insufferable puppy we re
scued in Rome ten years back? Theodore Daventer, who had the infernal cheek to make sheep's eyes at Cecelia? The Royal College of Wizards spent a long time working to remove the spells of persuasion and leadership that that Italian woman cast on him, but they were only partially successful. It is, I suppose, to his credit that he never wanted to be emperor of Europe, or we might have had much more trouble than we did. Instead, it seems, he has used his abilities to establish an international fraternity of sorts, an academy to facilitate the free exchange of all kinds of knowledge: scientific, historical, and, to the point, magical. He's recognized now as one of the rising intellectual lights of Europe. If anyone can persuade Mr. Skelly to assist us, it is Daventer.

  In the meantime, I plan to return to my study of the railway, since that is what brought Herr Magus Schellen up here. There are a number of prospective investors for the proposed Manchester-Liverpool line in town, studying the performance of the Stockton and Darlington line. I shall present myself as one of them, and if that will not serve to pry loose some useful information, I warn you that I will sacrifice you as well. The opportunity to hook a peer of the realm, with the added benefit of obtaining his vote in the House of Lords, will no doubt open a good many doors. I shall not, of course, mention your utter refusal to take your seat in Parliament, save on those rare occasions when something strikes your fancy. What has it been, twice in the last fifteen years?

  So if you should receive any inquiries about your interest in investing in railways, kindly do me the favor of responding with circumspection. That is to say, I'd appreciate it if you'd tell them you'd like more information, instead of telling them to go to the devil.

  Yours,

  James

  4 May 1828

  Skeynes

  Dear Cecy,

  Such an unfortunate turn of events. But how fortunate that Aunt Elizabeth and Mr. Wrexton arrived when they did. And only think of the effect it would have upon your children to learn that the dog you had secured for them (don't ask how they contrived to divine this—your prediction has proved uncannily accurate—they know about the sheepdog and view it as their rightful property) had died en route. The demise of Herr Magus Schellen would have been a tragedy, of course. The demise of Arthur's dog ("My faithful hound," I overheard Arthur say) would have been unmitigated domestic disaster.

  Thank goodness today's post brought us your new direction from James, for if I could not relate my news to you and send it off at once, I think I might shatter into small pieces. Small and silly pieces, so put aside any expectation that I have news of importance. I have nothing but nonsense for you. Be warned. I intend to burden you with it in painful detail, for otherwise it will buzz around inside my head for days. I know you are much too sensible to permit anything so foolish to buzz around inside your head for even five minutes, so I look forward to hearing your opinion of the matter.

  I gather we may count ourselves fortunate indeed that we are neglecting the London Season, as Aunt Elizabeth puts it, for I have learned that the London Season has not, alas, been neglecting us. You must keep this news in strictest confidence.

  Alice Siddington (you remember Alice Grenville that was, I hope?) is a tolerably regular correspondent of mine. She does not generally devote much of her attention to the gossip in town, but when she does, her information is to be relied upon.

  The most recent newspapers have confirmed, with their usual mixture of speculation and inaccuracy, a rumor I had heard from Alice in her last letter. A most mysterious volume of poetry has taken the fancy of the Ton. (Not for its quality, I assure you, but because the identity of the poetess is shrouded in secrecy.) Some speculate that the verses were written by a peeress, some that the author is a foreign noblewoman, still others that the poetess is someone belonging to the throng of King George's cousins, half rackety, half royal, or both.

  Demiroyal or demirep, the anonymous poetess has taken the Ton by storm. Copies are selling in the dozens, and hardly a fashionable gathering goes by without some reference to the mystery.

  Dear that she is, Alice sent me a copy of the slim volume so that I could speculate, too. A handsome article it is, bound in limp red leather. If the verses matched the quality of the paper they are printed on, it would be an impressive object. They don't. The moment the curiosity of the Ton has been satisfied, all interest in the poetess and her work will go where dew goes in midmorning. For now, however, it is a nine days' wonder, perhaps even ten.

  I'm sure you are well ahead of me, Cecy. It would have taken you a few lines only to detect the identity of the mysterious authoress. I had to read an entire page before I came to these lines, written ostensibly upon the topic of an ornamental fountain, although the author's determination never to fall in love again has been hammered at relentlessly throughout the verse:

  Falling I rise again

  And rise to fall no more

  Even I could hardly fail to guess the author, could I? Georgy once embroidered those words on a sampler. If her handkerchiefs had been large enough, she would have embroidered it on each of them, she was so proud of her poetical efforts.

  When I recovered my breath, I locked the slim volume safely away with Alice's letter. If I have learned anything from Thomas, it is the importance of keeping vital evidence safe while one considers the ways and means with which one might put it to the best possible use. No wonder Georgy enjoyed wagering. If there was ever anyone with such luck—

  to find herself all the rage for her poetry, of all things—I have never heard the like.

  I found Georgy in her bedchamber, trying which bonnet suited her best. When I closed the door and leaned against it, she turned to me from the looking glass with visible reluctance. I showed her the passage in the most recent Gazette. "No more penitent poems to James and Cecy, I fear, or all will be discovered."

  Georgy blushed. "I don't know what you mean."

  "Don't try to dissemble. Is that why you ran away? To create some sort of cause celebre to sell more copies of your book? You might have warned us of your impending notoriety." I was not nearly so stern as the words make me sound. Indeed, I could hardly keep from laughing at her indignation.

  "I would never do such a thing!" Georgy snatched the Gazette from me and hurled it across the room. That is, she tried. As I have often observed from Thomas's attempts to do the same, newspapers do not hurl well. They flutter and come down on the carpet in pieces, so that one has to bend repeatedly to pick it all up before one is discovered mid-tantrum.

  Georgy did not stir herself to pick up even a single page of the scattered Gazette. She held her head as if it pained her. "People are so dreadful!"

  "Which people? Those who buy your book?" I tidied up the scattered sheets. "Or those who shelter you from the curiosity of the Ton?"

  "The trifler who betrayed the confidence of a lady," Georgy snarled. "You can't think I intended my most intimate letters to be published?"

  "Do you mean you did it by accident?" I asked, before reason caught me back again. "Wait—did you say your letters?"

  "Yes, my letters," Georgy said defiantly. "I wrote to—a friend, confiding my distress to him only under conditions of strictest secrecy. That my thoughts took the form of verse only proves how intimate, how private they were. He betrayed me. He had the bare decency to suppress my identity, but when I could not—would not!—meet his terms, he carried out his threat! I only meant to make Daniel jealous. I thought he would send the letters to Daniel, never that he truly intended to have them published."

  The dramatic vigor of Georgy's lament was not lessened by the fine disdain with which she took the Gazette away from me again. The interest with which she reread the passage I had pointed out to her spoiled the effect a little, but under the circumstances I could not blame her for her curiosity.

  "It seems he has fulfilled his threats to the last degree," Georgy exclaimed when she had read the passage twice. "What am I to do?" She said a good deal more, but I will spare you what I can.

  "What a me
rcy you are here, safely away from the scandal," I told her. "We may scrape through with our reputations intact. It's not as if anyone ever saw you read poetry, let alone write any."

  "You are heartless!" Georgy informed me. "What can you know of the finer feelings?"

  I ought to have shown Georgy more sympathy, I own. Very likely I would have done so if she had not been watering our carpets for months on end now. My patience deserted me, as usual, just when I needed it most. "I don't see what your feelings have to do with it," I confessed. "It's your infernal verses that are causing the trouble."

  "You have taken on a harder stamp since your marriage," Georgy said. "I blame your husband."

  "Oh, do you?" I retorted. "Then be sure to blame him for the roof over your head and the food on your plate, too, for I don't see anyone else lining up for the privilege of entertaining you, Your Grace, particularly not your husband."

  I was a fool to lose my temper. But there it is. I am a fool. I flew out of Georgy's bedchamber as if a swarm of wasps were after me, and only pouring out the whole silly tale to you has made me feel any more composed about the matter. I am sorry to burden you with these starts when you have the whole weight of English history, ley lines and all, upon your shoulders.

  I will write again, and in a more temperate vein, as soon as I have something of genuine value to say. In the meantime, thank you for existing. At least I have one relation (other than Aunt Elizabeth) with some sense. I find it a great comfort.

  Yours,

  Kate

  5 May 1828

  Skeynes

  Dear James,

  Thank you for settling down in one place long enough for me to learn your direction and write to you properly. You've earned so much commiseration from me over your trials that I won't bore you with any. Instead I send something far more to the point—news.