A Matter of Magic

by Patricia C. Wrede

  Halfway through the first act, Kim felt the unmistakable tingling sensation that heralded a spell in process. She stiffened, and looked around for the wizard, noting absently that Mairelon, Lady Wendall, and Renée D’Auber were doing the same. No one else seemed to notice; on stage, the opera continued forward without pause, and the audience was as rapt as they had ever been, which was not much. Mairelon spoke two rapid sentences in a low voice, and the tingling intensified. Then, abruptly, the feeling vanished.

  Kim wanted desperately to question Mairelon, but again Lady Wendall gestured to forbid speech. Renée, Mairelon, and Lady Wendall continued watching the performance with outward calm, while Kim shifted restlessly in her seat for the rest of the act. As the curtain closed and the stage crew rushed to replace the candles in the giant candelabra that provided light to the stage, she turned to Mairelon and demanded, “What was that?”

  “A scrying spell, I think,” Mairelon said. “Someone wanted to know where we were.”

  “You think?” Renée said, lifting her eyebrows.

  “The spell had an unusual construction. It was similar to the basic look-and-see spell everyone learns as an apprentice, but it wasn’t identical by any means.” He smiled. “It will be interesting to see who turns up during the interval.”

  An expression of mild relief crossed Lady Wendall’s face. “You think that’s all—oh, good evening, Lady Lidestone. Allow me to present my son’s apprentice and ward, Miss Kim Merrill.”

  Kim rose and bobbed a curtsey as an elderly woman in a purple turban entered the box. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Lidestone,” she murmured.

  Lady Lidestone raised a gold lorgnette and studied Kim. “Better than I had been led to believe,” she pronounced after a moment. “So you really do intend to introduce her to Society, Elizabeth?”

  “Of course,” Lady Wendall said. “It will add a bit of spice to this year’s Season.”

  Lady Lidestone gave a crack of laughter. “You always have been one for spice. I’ll look forward to more entertainment than I’ve had in a long while.” She gave a nod of approval that included Kim, and moved on.

  She was replaced almost at once by a tongue-tied young woman and her Mama, who had ostensibly come to give their regards to Lady Wendall, but who seemed far more interested in being presented to Mairelon. They were followed by several amiable young men who wished to pay their respects to Renée, and the box began to seem more than a little full. Kim frowned, feeling hot and a little dizzy but not knowing quite what to do about it.

  “You’re looking a bit overheated,” Mairelon’s voice said in her ear. “I believe we should take a turn in the corridor.”

  Kim jumped, then nodded gratefully. With a few words, Mairelon extricated them from the polite conversation, and a moment later they were in the relative cool and quiet of the corridor.

  “That’s a relief,” Kim said with a sigh as they walked toward the foyer.

  Mairelon raised an eyebrow in inquiry.

  “This is all . . . it’s just . . . it’s so much,” she said.

  “A bit overwhelming?” Mairelon said, nodding in understanding. “You’ll become accustomed.”

  “Maybe,” Kim said dubiously.

  They walked in companionable silence to the foyer, nodding in passing to several people on their way to visit boxes. The foyer was, once again, full of toffs and the scent of candle smoke. They stood in the doorway for a moment, watching as people surged and shifted, then moved sideways to stand against the wall and out of the traffic.

  A few enterprising vendors had slipped into the opera house with baskets of fruit or comfits to sell to the toffs; one had even managed a tray of steaming drinks. Kim watched in professional admiration as he maneuvered through the crowd without spilling a drop. His customers were not always so fortunate; even as she watched, someone jostled a tall gentleman holding one of the drinks. The liquid sloshed over the rim of the mug and over his hands and sleeves. Cursing, the man set the mug on the vendor’s tray and stripped off his gloves. As he scrubbed uselessly at his sleeve, light gleamed on a gold ring carved in the shape of a flower with a red stone in the center.

  Kim clutched at Mairelon’s arm. “Mairelon! That toff burglar’s here. Or somebody with a ring like his, anyways. Over there!”

  Without hesitation, Mairelon shook off her hand and plunged into the crowd. Kim tried to keep the burglar in sight, but the constant motion of the crowd made it impossible. If I’d known it was him sooner, I could have gotten a look at his face. Oh, well, maybe Mairelon will catch him. But she knew that under these conditions, it would be the sheerest luck if he did. At least now I know he’s got light hair. I wish I could have seen his face, though. She backed up to avoid being stepped on by a portly gentleman in a very great hurry, and bumped into someone standing behind her.

  “Excuse me,” she began, turning, and stopped short. Looking down at her was an impressively handsome man with sandy-brown hair and warm brown eyes. He appeared to be in his early thirties, and his clothes proclaimed him very well-inlaid. Without thinking, Kim glanced down at his hands, and was unreasonably relieved to see that he was not wearing a ring. He can’t be the cove Mairelon’s chasing, anyway—he couldn’t have gotten here from over there, not this fast.

  “It was my fault entirely, Mademoiselle, and I beg your pardon,” the man said, bowing. His voice was deep and faintly accented, but all Kim was certain of was that he was not French. He straightened and smiled. “We appear to have no one to make proper introductions. Permit me to be incorrect. I am Alexei Nicholaiovitch Durmontov.”

  “I’m Kim.”

  “I am most pleased.” Durmontov bowed again. “You are alone; may I return you to your party, to amend my clumsiness?”

  Kim glanced over her shoulder, but there was no sign of Mairelon. Well, Lady Wendall and Renée D’Auber keep saying that wizards can do what they like. So I will. “Yes,” she said, then added belatedly, “Thank you.”

  Durmontov offered her his arm, and she directed him down the hall to the box. Lady Wendall looked mildly startled when they entered, and gave Kim a pointed look of inquiry.

  “Mairelon saw somebody he wanted to talk to,” Kim said. “Mr. Durmontov offered to bring me back.”

  “Ah.” Lady Wendall’s expression cleared. “Thank you, Mr. Durmontov. I’m sure my son also appreciates your kindness to his ward. I am Lady Wendall.”

  “It is more correctly Prince Durmontov,” Durmontov said almost apologetically. “Prince is not the most correct term, but it comes as close as your English can.”

  A prince? Kim suppressed the urge to shake her head in wonder as Lady Wendall went through the rest of the introductions, extracting the prince’s full name in the process. A prince, bowing to me. Tom Correy would never believe it.

  “You are, then, Russian?” Renée said with considerable interest once the courtesies had been attended to.

  “Since my birth, Mademoiselle,” Durmontov replied. “I currently stay with Countess Lieven, though next week I remove to the George.”

  “I will look forward to seeing you at the countess’s when I call upon her Friday,” Renée said.

  “And what brings you to England, Prince Durmontov?” Lady Wendall asked.

  The prince’s smile vanished. “Family business,” he said shortly.

  “Forgive me if the question was indiscreet,” Lady Wendall said, unperturbed. “I find your country fascinating, but I fear I am not well acquainted with your customs.”

  “In your country, it is I who must comply with English customs,” Durmontov replied.

  “Ah, Kim, you made it back,” Mairelon said from the entrance to the box. “I had no luck, I’m afraid; he got away in the crowd. Did you get a good look at his face?”

  “No,” Kim answered.

  “Richard.” Lady Wendall’s voice held just the faintest note of reproach. “Allow me to present Prince Alexei Durmontov. Prince, my son, Richard Merrill.”

  “It
is a pleasure,” the prince said, but his eyes were skeptical and faintly wary.

  Mairelon did not appear to notice. “Durmontov, Durmontov. Now where have I . . .? Oh, yes. You don’t happen to know a Miss Letitia Tarnower, do you?”

  “I do not believe so,” he replied, looking startled. “Why is it that you ask?”

  “I expect you’ll meet her fairly soon, then,” Mairelon said. “That would explain it nicely.”

  “Explain what?” Lady Wendall said.

  “Monsieur Merrill is very often most provoking, particularly when it is a matter of information,” Renée informed the puzzled Russian prince. “Do not mind him in the least.”

  “I shall do my best to take your advice, Mademoiselle,” Durmontov said. “It would be less difficult, however, if I had some small idea to what he refers.”

  “We met Miss Tarnower at that tea party last week,” Kim said to Lady Wendall, feeling some explanation was called for. “She asked about Prince Durmontov.”

  “Yes, she put on a splendid show of hen-wittedness,” Mairelon said. “Nobody is that silly by accident. I wonder what, exactly, she has in mind?”

  “It is entirely unimportant,” Renée said with somewhat more emphasis than was strictly necessary. “And I very much regret it, but it is nearly time for the second curtain.”

  “I regret it also, Mademoiselle, and I look forward to our future meeting,” Durmontov said, and took his leave.

  There was no time for more; the curtain rose almost as the prince left the box. It was not until they were in the carriage on the way home that the conversation resumed.

  “Did anyone else interesting turn up in the interval?” Mairelon asked as they rattled over the cobblestones toward Renée’s townhouse.

  “A Russian prince is quite enough, I think,” Renée said.

  “But was he the one who cast the scrying spell?”

  “How is it that I would know that?” Renée demanded. “It is not a thing one can tell by looking.”

  “The Marquis of Harsfeld, Lord Franton, arrived after you left,” Lady Wendall said with some satisfaction. “He wished to be presented to Kim, and was quite disappointed to find that she was not there.”

  “Harsfeld? He must be nearly eighty,” Mairelon said, frowning. “What does he want with Kim?”

  “No, no, Richard, you’re thinking of the fourth Marquis of Harsfeld,” Lady Wendall said. “He died last year; it is the fifth marquis who was asking after Kim. He is quite a young gentleman—not much above twenty, I think. He was the grandson of the previous marquis.”

  “Oh. I expect that’s all right, then,” Mairelon said, but he continued to frown.

  Lady Wendall looked at him, and turned the topic to the evening’s performance. As this involved much comparison with previous performances, and speculation as to what certain different singers might have done in some of the roles, the discussion lasted until they reached the house in Grosvenor Square. Lady Wendall and Mairelon were arguing amicably as they entered, only to be interrupted by a loud thump from upstairs.

  “What was that?” Mairelon said.

  The unmistakable sound of china shattering, followed by an inarticulate shout, was the only reply.

  “Maximillian!” Lady Wendall cried, and flew up the stairs.

  10

  Mairelon and Kim exchanged glances and followed Lady Wendall, though somewhat less rapidly. Halfway up the stairs, Kim unexpectedly felt the tingling pressure of magic. Her eyes widened; whatever was going on up there, it wasn’t just the monkey. Mairelon must have felt it, too, for he started taking the stairs two at a time and elbowed his way rapidly through the little crowd of servants that had gathered in the upstairs hall, following his mother. He paused only once, to speak briefly to Hunch. Kim, hampered by her skirts, followed as fast as she could manage, only to bump into Mairelon from the rear when he stopped dead in the library doorway. The magical pressure was stronger here, and for a moment Kim thought that was what had brought Mairelon to a halt. Then he moved aside, and she got a clear view of the library.

  Shards of white pottery littered the hearth, and one of the unlit candlesticks from the mantel had fallen among them. The heat from the fire was in the process of melting the candlewax, gluing everything firmly to the hearth rug. The table in the center of the library had tipped over, strewing books and papers across the floor. Harry, the footman, hovered uncertainly by the monkey cage. Inside the cage, Maximillian swung from bar to bar in high agitation, chattering loud reproaches. Kim’s first thought was that their burglar had returned; then she saw Mrs. Lowe.

  She stood in the far corner, her back to the bookshelves. Her expression was grimly determined, and her hands were wrapped around the fireplace poker, brandishing it as if it were a club. Behind her, one of the housemaids cowered in terror. In front of them, at about chest height, hovered a small book with a blue leather binding—Marie de Cambriol’s livre de mémoire.

  Lady Wendall had stopped two paces inside the library. “What on earth—”

  The monkey shrieked loudly, and the blue book hurled itself forward. Mrs. Lowe whacked the book with her poker, and it dipped and retreated. An instant later, it streaked toward the bookcase beside her. It hit with considerable force, knocking several volumes to the floor. Apparently, this was not the first time the book had performed this maneuver; two of the shelves were already empty, and a third held only one book lying flat. The monkey shrieked again as the book backed up and made a dive at Mrs. Lowe. She hit it with the poker once more, square on.

  “A nice flush hit!” Mairelon said. “Have you ever thought of playing cricket, Aunt?” Though his words were careless, Kim noticed that his hands were already moving in the gestures of a spell.

  “Richard, your levity is singularly ill-timed,” Mrs. Lowe said, keeping a wary eye on the floating book. “You are supposed to be a magician; do something about this ghost, if you please.”

  The housemaid wailed. The book wobbled, then angled upward and flung itself at the bookcases again. It hit the top shelf, which was still filled, and all of the books jumped. Fortunately, this time none of them fell.

  “It isn’t a ghost,” Lady Wendall said calmly. “It’s a spell.” She picked a candle from the candlebox on the side table next to the door. “Fiat lux,” she said, and the candle burst into flame. Kim blinked; she hadn’t realized that Mairelon’s mother was a full-fledged wizard, not merely a dabbler. Lady Wendall held the candle out to Mairelon. “If you’ll assist with the warding spell, dear . . .”

  “Not just yet, Mother,” Mairelon replied. “I’d like to analyze this first.”

  “Stop it and then analyze it!” Mrs. Lowe gave Mairelon a withering look, then hastily returned her attention to the flying book. It was now making short runs against the bookcase, and its edges looked rather battered.

  “But it’s much simpler to analyze a spell in process,” Mairelon said. “O xenoi, tines este, pothen pleith’ hugra keleutha.”

  The book paused in midflight, hovered for a moment, and then fell to the floor with a thud. The suffocating sense of magic eased. Mairelon looked startled, then began muttering rapidly under his breath. Lady Wendall, imperturbable once again, began pacing slowly around the room with the lighted candle, reciting the familiar warding spell as she went.

  Mrs. Lowe hesitated, then lowered the poker and pulled the whimpering housemaid out of Lady Wendall’s way. Kim waited a moment longer, to be certain that she would not accidentally disrupt the spells Mairelon and Lady Wendall were working, and then began picking up the books and papers littering the floor. She kept away from the blue volume that had apparently caused all the trouble. After a moment, the footman joined her.

  “There,” Lady Wendall said, placing the lighted candle in a holder next to the candlebox. “That should hold things for a little, I think.”

  “For a little?” Mrs. Lowe’s voice wavered, then steadied into indignation. “Do you mean that we may expect a recurrence of this . . . this event?�
�

  The housemaid apparently did not find Lady Wendall’s comment very reassuring either; she shook off her paralysis at last and began having strong hysterics instead. Kim rolled her eyes, set down the books she was carrying, and looked around for a water jug or a vase of flowers. If the library had ever had any such things, they had not survived the activities of the flying book.

  Lady Wendall moved swiftly to the housemaid’s side and gave her a resounding slap. The maid gasped and coughed, then began sniveling quietly. When she was sure the girl was not going to begin screeching again, Lady Wendall turned to the footman and said, “Thank you for looking after Maximillian, Harry. Why don’t you take Tess down to the kitchen and give her something to settle her nerves? And yourself as well, of course. You’ve both had a very trying evening, I’m sure.”

  “Thank you, Mum,” the footman mumbled, and ushered the housemaid out.

  “He’ll be into the brandy for certain,” Mrs. Lowe said sourly when the door had closed behind them.

  “That is precisely what I intend,” Lady Wendall said. “I think they deserve it, and if it makes the rest of the servants wonder whether this is all the result of some odd drunken revel, they will be less likely to give notice due to fear of ghosts.”

  “Ghosts? Not at all,” Mairelon said, looking up from his observation of the now-quiescent book. “Good heavens, this house has had magicians and wizards in it for donkey’s years. No ghost would dare come near it.”

  “Well, perhaps it would be a good idea if you explained that in the servants’ hall tomorrow morning, Richard,” Lady Wendall said. “Otherwise we may end up doing the cooking and floor-waxing for Kim’s ball ourselves.”

  “Hmm? No, I’ll get Hunch to do that. He’ll be much more convincing.

  “So long as it is convincing, dearest,” Lady Wendall said. “Are you quite finished? Because if you are, we had better set up a ward around the house.”