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Authors: Caroline Stevermer

BOOK: A Scholar of Magics
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“If Bridgewater never went to Glasscastle, why is he interested in the place?”
“I can't imagine. Unless Bridgewater was piqued that Glasscastle did not immediately fall at his feet in gratitude for his slightest attention. I'm sure it is the only institution that hasn't. A unique and refreshing experience for him. Bridgewater is the sort of man who relishes a challenge. Given his resources, he doesn't find many.” Fell returned to his journal article.
Lambert went back to reading the newspapers. The Board
of Trade had proposed a bill to make wireless installation compulsory on oceangoing steamers. The British-Atlantic project, which would connect every continent by wireless, had announced a new receiving and transmitting station to be built in Shropshire. The American news was dominated by a spirited criticism of President Taft and his proposal to nullify parts of the Hay-Pauncefote Treaty. American efforts to curtail English shipping through the Panama Canal were misguided at best and inflammatory at worst. If Taft's government did not understand its folly, it must be made to understand.
Lambert sighed and turned the page.
When they descended at Glasscastle, the five o'clock train to London was steaming in at the opposite platform.
On their way up from the platform, Jane Brailsford and her brother hailed them. They met in the center of the walkway and exclaimed at the coincidence.
“Fell, good to see you.” Robert Brailsford addressed Fell a bit formally, then turned to his sister. “Jane, may I present Nicholas Fell, Master of Arts and Fellow of Glasscastle. Fell, allow me to present my sister, Miss Jane Brailsford.”
Lambert wondered what Jane would make of Nicholas Fell. Fell's one distinguished feature was his voice, deep and musical. To the uninformed observer, Fell was easily overlooked. His usual expression was one of faint apology, replaced only at rare moments with one of interest keen to the point of intimidation. He was only an inch or two taller than Jane, his build, his coloring, and even his neatly clipped mustache all average. If Jane treated Fell the way she had Porteous, Lambert didn't want to miss a moment of it.
“Has Lambert told you about the disturbance in your study?” Robert asked Fell.
“He came all the way up to town to fetch me.” Fell tugged at his mustache. “I'll be interested to see the result.”
“I wish I'd known you'd be back.” Robert eyed the outbound train with some anxiety.
“Robin is going to Shropshire,” Jane explained. “Amy was indisposed, so I'm putting him on his train.”
“Nothing serious, I hope?” Lambert asked.
“Not at all,” said Brailsford.
“She will feel better later,” Jane added.
“Jane fancies herself my chauffeur,” Brailsford said. “It's absurd. I'm sound in wind and limb—perfectly capable of getting myself to the train and back again without assistance.”
“With bag and baggage? Ridiculous, when you have me to drive you.”
Brailsford was firm. “It's my motor car, Jane. Just remember that. After all, you promised me.”
Jane's manner was patient as she repeated terms with which she was evidently well versed. “No speeding and no detours, just drive straight back home.”
“And don't sound the horn,” Brailsford added.
“I remember, I remember.”
“While you're remembering, bear in mind that it is a proper car and not one of your Bantams. No wedging it into spaces too small.”
“I'll insist on a wide berth,” Jane promised.
Fell eyed Jane with disbelief. “You drive a motor car?”
“One of the things I've come home to do is buy one of my own,” Jane confided.
“I must go. No need to come with me to the platform, Jane.” Robert kissed his sister's cheek and departed.
Jane asked, “May I offer you gentlemen a ride in from the railway station? It's rather a long walk back to the university gate from here. I'll just wave Robin off first.”
“That's very kind of you,” said Lambert.
“Please, it would be my pleasure. This is the first time Robin has trusted me with his Minotaur. It's enormous. I'll put you in the back and play chauffeur.”
Brailsford's train pulled out as Jane waved and Fell and Lambert watched in amiable silence. When the train had gone, Fell said pensively, “I suppose you might mean
chauffeuse
.”
“Trust me,” Jane replied, “if I had meant chauffeuse, I'd have said chauffeuse. But if it will make you more inclined to accept my offer, consider me to have said chauffeuse.”
Fell asked, “You won't drive fast, will you?”
“Define fast,” Jane said.
Fell said, “By Jove, Lambert, you've fallen among Amazons. I suppose we have no alternative. Polite refusal would imply a lack of confidence in her skills. Hardly courteous behavior, that. I've had enough of issuing polite refusals lately.”
Stowed in the backseat with the light baggage, both Lambert and Fell watched with interest as Jane negotiated with a sturdy youth to have the crank at the front of her brother's vehicle turned vigorously. The motor caught with a roar. Dexterously she manipulated the levers and pedals that allowed her to pull smoothly out of the station.
Once she had eased the Minotaur into the flow of traffic,
Jane drove with complete aplomb. She contrived to miss, albeit narrowly at times, pedestrians, bicyclists, cabs, carts, draymen, and other motor cars. Even during the long holiday between terms, there was enough traffic to make the drive a sporting challenge. So novel was the rate of speed, so fascinating was the spectacle, it took Lambert several moments to notice that Jane had missed the turning for the road back to Glasscastle.
“I'm afraid we're headed for Ilchester,” Lambert called over the racket of their passage. “Glasscastle is the other way.”
“There's a first-rate coaching inn at Nether Petherton,” said Jane. “By the time we get there, they will be serving dinner. I'm told they do a very nice steak pie.” Clear of the town, the road was almost empty. Jane picked up speed. “Part of the route follows a Roman road, nice and straight, so with luck I'll be able to open her up a bit too.”
“But you promised your brother there would be no speeding and you would go straight back.” Lambert couldn't help the edge in his voice. He sounded downright plaintive. It was embarrassing. Lambert reminded himself that the speed probably wouldn't bother him if he were the one at the wheel. As it was, he had to fight the urge to shut his eyes until it was over.
“I know. Disgraceful, isn't it?” Jane spared enough of her attention from the road ahead to look back and give Lambert a reassuring smile. “Once we reach Nether Petherton, I have a message for Mr. Fell. It is of paramount importance.”
Lambert had to raise his voice to be sure he was heard over the roar of the motor car and the wind slicing past them.
“Can it be more important than your promise to your brother?”
“I also promised Amy I'd be home in time for tea. I think that promise is doomed to go overboard too.” Jane's tone turned serious. “I've promised something else, to someone else, and it takes precedence over everything.”
Lambert had been driven in motor cars before, but seldom over such abruptly rolling terrain, and never at so great a speed. When Jane drove up an incline, she did so with such abandon that the ascent continued for a split second after they reached the crest. The sensation this created in the pit of Lambert's stomach convinced him he would have no interest in dinner whatsoever.
Fell said, “Do you realize, Miss Brailsford, that the route you've proposed to Nether Petherton will take you along the Roman road at a time of day when the sun shines directly into your eyes? You may not be able to achieve the velocity you desire without sacrificing safety.”
In his reading, Lambert had once or twice encountered the term
glee
. He had never seen it firsthand until he saw Jane Brailsford's expression as she glanced back to reassure them. “Oh, that will be no trouble at all. I have tinted goggles.”
The Roman road was all that Fell had warned it would be. Jane pulled her green goggles into place and forged along pitilessly. “Robin says she'll do thirty-five at top speed,” she announced, “but I think we can do a good deal better than that.”
Lambert closed his eyes. The sunlight made red flashes against his lids. If Jane said anything more to him, it was lost in the rising noise of the engine. There was nothing else in
the world but wind tearing at Lambert's hair and clothing, and regret tearing at his heart. Why hadn't he insisted on walking back to Glasscastle from the station?
 
A
clear road, a sunny day, and not a police constable to be seen. Jane gave the Minotaur a chance to show its paces on the way to Nether Petherton and wondered if Robin might have a point. There was something to be said for massive motor cars. Vastly more automobile than she needed, the Minotaur was a treat to drive.
Jane pulled up at the Bunch of Grapes and looked to see how her passengers had weathered the journey. They were windswept, dusty, and pallid. Jane hoped the tint of her goggles was responsible for their greenish aspect and not her driving.
Fell leaned forward, eyeing the switches and dials on the dashboard. “What was our ultimate velocity, can you tell me? Did we travel at thirty-five miles per hour?”
“We did.” Jane removed the goggles and with a few deft touches restored order to her traveling ensemble. “For a fraction of a mile, we were going faster. Thirty-seven miles per hour, if you can credit it. If we take the same route home, we could try to better our record.”
Lambert made a small, probably involuntary, sound of protest.
Jane relented. “No? Perhaps another time, then. Now, if you'll permit me to arrange a meal for us, to be served in conditions of privacy, I have a question for you, Mr. Fell.”
“Very well.” Fell leaned back in his seat with a deep sigh. “It was a good run while it lasted.”
The Bunch of Grapes was as comfortable as Jane had been led to believe. Although there was no private dining room, their table was in a nook off the private lounge, with no other diners within earshot. The room itself was inviting, dark timbers close overhead, ivy at the deep windows countering the heat of summer sunlight, and flagstones cool underfoot. She ordered for her companions and when the food and drink came, they found it excellent.
Once the meal had been cleared away, Jane turned to Fell. “I've been charged to deliver a message to you. Forgive my bluntness but I must know—what have you been
doing
? You've been the new warden of the west since January and you've done nothing. It's disgraceful.”
Lambert blinked at her. “Warden?”
“The warden of the west,” Jane explained. “The new one. The old one died in Paris in January.”
Fell touched his mustache and glanced down at the tablecloth. “I'm not a warden.”
Jane leaned toward him and kept her voice low. “You are.”
Fell looked up and away, apparently fascinated by the beams overhead. “I should have said I'm not a warden yet.”
“There's no point in arguing the matter. It's time you did your duty. You can't leave all the work to the others indefinitely.”
“It isn't that simple.” Fell wouldn't meet her eyes.
Jane suppressed the urge to pound the table with her fist. “Then please explain why not. Answer one of the letters or telegrams Faris Nallaneen sent you from Aravis. Would that be simple enough? I've had to cross the Channel to have it out with you and that's something I do not undertake lightly.
You have ways to communicate that surpass anything I can muster. All I ask is that you do your duty as a warden or explain why you're doing nothing. This lurking about in the groves of academe is hardly the way to behave. I was starting to get the idea you were avoiding me.”
“Had I known of your existence,” said Fell, “believe me, I would have. I've been avoiding every other form of communication with the wardens.”
“I wrote to you. I wired you. How could you fail to know of my existence?” Jane demanded.
Lambert looked from Jane to Fell. “Wardens?”
“She thinks I'm one of the four wardens of the world,” Fell explained.
“You are. You're the new warden of the west, God help us all,” said Jane.
“But there's no such thing as wardens of the world,” said Lambert. “That's only a remnant of folk belief. Cromer and Palgrave were arguing about it at dinner just last week.”
“Don't believe everything you hear,” Jane advised. “The new warden of the north sent me here and I can promise you,
she
exists.”
“Miss Brailsford must have it wrong. Tell her.” Lambert appealed to Fell. “You've studied the history of magic for years. You're an authority on the subject. Aren't you?”

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