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Authors: Caroline Stevermer

BOOK: A Scholar of Magics
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“What a shame you never had a proper education,” Jane said, with injudicious honesty. “I think you must have great aptitude. With the right kind of training, you might have been a powerful magician.”
“I don't want power,” snapped Amy. “I only want things the way they should be. A bit of peace and quiet, a well-run house, that's all. I want my husband and I want as many children as possible.” Amy put her handkerchief away and added defiantly, “When it comes to the really important things in life, I'd back my education against yours any day. I had an excellent governess.”
Sharp rejoinders occurred to Jane but she let them all fade away unspoken. The spindle was cool between her fingers now. She wound the cord neatly around it. “I don't suppose your grandmother had any formal education either?”
“She taught me all sorts of things,” said Amy. “Natural magic, not that stuff with foreign invocations. Very dangerous, that sort of magic.”
“She was right about that,” said Jane, with heartfelt agreement.
Slightly mollified, Amy unbent. “She talked to the bees. They told her things.”
True country magic of the oldest kind. Jane was impressed. “Is that magic?” Lambert looked intrigued. “My grandmother said that about bees too.”
Jane nodded. “That's the genuine article. What else?”
Amy thought it over and added, with an air of mild defiance, “She was very good at reading one's character from the shape of one's skull.”
“Oh.” Jane noticed Lambert had withdrawn and found a chair of his own. Apparently he now considered Amy sufficiently soothed. How typical of Amy that she valued her grandmother's craft no higher. There had been real skill involved in the construction of the spindle's cantrip. It was simple but durable and had a strength that would long outlast more complex and sophisticated magics.
Jane released the spindle and let it spin free at the end of the horsehair cord. “Let's see if it works for me.” She took a deep breath and centered her attention on the ivory spindle, ignoring the tiles scattered across the table beneath. She steadied herself, emptied herself of expectation, and simply stood there with the pretty bauble motionless at the end of its cord.
The tableau lasted no more than three silent minutes. Amy was just about to speak, possibly to offer advice, when Jane forestalled her. “Where is Nicholas Fell?” she asked.
At once, the spindle began to twist the cord. Jane felt her fingertips prickling as if they had fallen asleep. Slowly at first, then with increasingly swift rotation, the spindle began to turn so fiercely that the cord twisted out of Jane's grasp. The spindle arched across the room, hit the wall with a sharp thud, and then fell back to lodge in the aspidistra.
“See?” Amy was triumphant. “It really works.”
“Oh, dear.” Jane rubbed her fingers until the prickles ebbed away. “It must be a great bore to have to spell things out. I don't blame them for cutting corners now and then.”
“All right. What just happened here?” Calmly, Lambert retrieved the spindle and cord from the aspidistra and put it on the table. “Just who is
them,
if isn't rude to ask?”
Jane waved her hand in a vague gesture that took in about half the ceiling. “
Them.
Those who come when you don't call”
“Spirits?” Lambert looked as if he were trying not to laugh. “Mediums and their controls, you mean? I thought that was all a copper-bottomed fraud.”
“The mediums are. They only get what comes when they call. Most don't even bother to call. They can't spare a moment from their trickery, the malignant scum.” Jane caught herself at the edge of a lecture and relented. “Just because the world is full of frauds doesn't mean there isn't more out there than we can understand. There are other forces, not that they are usually worth half the trouble they cause. Five hundred years ago, even here in a bastion of learning, there was hardly a spring that didn't have its tutelary spirit, and plenty of people glad to honor it. No one has ever properly catalogued all the different kinds of natural spirits. That would be a thesis worth writing, even if one only did the locals.” Jane picked up the spindle again. “As for what just happened here, Amy, point in the direction of Ludlow.”
Amy pointed, without hesitation, in the direction of the aspidistra.
“Thought so. Mind if I borrow this?” Jane wrapped the cord tightly around the spindle.
Amy's suspicion was clear. “Why? You're not going to take it apart to see how it works, are you?”
“No. If this cantrip of yours can tell us which direction Fell has gone, and Robert too, it might be helpful on the
journey. But since you reminded me, I do have something, I've been meaning to take apart.” Jane put the spindle in her bag and produced the handkerchief that contained the carved wooden cylinder she'd taken from the intruder.
Lambert regarded her bleakly. “What journey?” He sounded like he already knew the answer to the question he was asking and he didn't like it.
“I'm going to Ludlow. Do you have a knife, by any chance?” Jane put the handkerchief on the table and unwrapped the cylinder with care.
“Why?” Lambert searched his trouser pockets, scowling.
Jane found a crevice in the cylinder's carving and ran a fingernail along it. “I think it's time to do a bit of dissection on this thing. I tried it on the gatekeeper earlier and it didn't work at all.”
“Not that.” Lambert handed her his penknife. “I mean why go to Ludlow?”
“To look for Fell. And for Robert, of course,” Jane added, with an eye toward Amy's incipient protest. “Who am I to ignore these signs and portents? Something—or someone—wants me to go to Ludlow. I don't see any way to find out why unless I actually go there.”
“Oh, I knew you were worried too,” exclaimed Amy, and enfolded Jane in a sisterly hug. “Oh, thank goodness. Oh, I'll help you pack for the train.”
“Not for the train,” Jane said, still engrossed in the cylinder. “For the motor car.”
“Great.” Lambert leaned close to Jane, watching as she poked gingerly at the intricate carving. “Are you sure that's the proper tool for the job?”
“Don't cut yourself.” Amy was watching too. “That knife looks very sharp.”
“No point in carrying a dull one,” said Lambert. “Watch it, there.”
Jane did her best to quell Lambert with a glance. “Quiet, you. I'm still recovering from my disillusion. If ever I thought someone could be relied upon to carry a Bowie knife, it's you.” Jane teased the edge of the knife blade into the crevice and loosened a plug at one end of the cylinder. Once she had it uncapped, she shook the contents of the cylinder out among the tiles. What emerged was about half an ounce of water and something that seemed to be fine splinters of wood.
“I had a Bowie knife once,” said Lambert. “Lost it, though. Stuck it in a bear and the bear ran off. It seemed like a good swap at the time.”
“What is that?” Amy asked. “It looks like someone put a piece of driftwood in there and it just fell apart.”
“So it does.” Jane prodded the wet wood with the tip of the blade, then gave the penknife back to Lambert. She rubbed her palms together and murmured an incantation as she cupped her hands over the wet wood and the cylinder. After a long silence to absorb the impressions in full, she brushed her hands palm to palm again and clapped them lightly to close the spell.
Jane folded her hands. “What a pity Robin isn't here. He could tell so much more. I think it's not pure Glasscastle magic. There's a vein of Glasscastle magic running clear through it, the way that carved vine winds around the cylinder.
But the wood and the water, that's new to me. It's fresh water, by the way. Not salt water, nor holy water. The wood isn't driftwood, though it does look it. More than that, I don't know. I don't think there's any chance of adapting it to work for us. Pity.”
“You wanted to use it yourself?” Lambert asked. “A bit of magic to let you come and go through the gates of Glasscastle without supervision? Miss Brailsford, I'm shocked.”
“Oh, so innocent. Don't pretend the thought never crossed your mind.” Jane mopped up the water with the handkerchief she'd used to wrap the cylinder, then put the splinters back and plugged the cylinder again. “You will loan me the Minotaur, won't you?” Jane asked Amy, as she stowed the little bundle in her bag.
“Borrow anything of ours you please,” said Amy. “But do be careful.”
“You can't go motoring off all by yourself,” said Lambert. “For one thing, it's pitch-dark.”
“I'll leave first thing in the morning. It will take me quite some time just to pack and make a few basic preparations.” Back to the ink bottle, Jane thought. She couldn't leave without telling Faris what she planned to do. Just as well she'd kept the Royal Worcester plate in her room.
Lambert said, “You really can't drive off all alone.”
“How kind!” Jane beamed at him as if he'd made a wonderful discovery. “No, it would be much better if you came too”
Lambert looked taken aback. “
Me?
No, I can't go.”
“I'd go,” said Amy, “but I have an appointment. The doctor will be here to see me tomorrow.” She touched the slight swell of her belly. “It's important.”
“We understand.” Jane patted Amy's hand soothingly. “Everything will be fine.”
“Perhaps Lambert could bring a pistol or two along with him, just in case of emergencies,” suggested Amy. She smiled at him with great sweetness. “Since the bear ran away with your Bowie knife.”
“Yes, what was all that about the bear?” Jane's interest was unfeigned. “Did you think we weren't listening?”
“I think I'd be forgiven for reaching that conclusion” Lambert looked nettled. “I crossed a stream and worked my way downwind. When he couldn't smell me any more, the bear gave up.”
“Lambert tells the most wonderful stretchers,” said Amy fondly. “It's a bit like feeding a squirrel. If you pretend you don't notice, he sits right down beside you and then the stories just come out, as naturally as breathing.”
“I remind you of a squirrel?” Lambert's indignation was profound. “Why didn't you mention this before?”
“Because I love every moment of it,” Amy assured him. “The story about the man who sells his soul for a rifle and five magic bullets is my absolute favorite.” Amy turned to Jane. “You really must get him to tell you that one.”
“I
might
have stretched a point here and there,” Lambert admitted stiffly. “You never let on I was boring you. I wish you had.”
“You weren't! I wouldn't have missed a single word, not for anything. Oh, don't look so embarrassed.” Amy patted
Lambert's shoulder. “You only do it to please me, because you know I enjoyed reading The
Virginian
so much.”
Lambert muttered something that sounded very much like “Damned embarrassing book,” and then “Sorry, ma' am,” and then fell silent.
Jane thought it best to change the subject. “You may come along with me if you're here, ready and waiting. Otherwise, I'll go alone.”
“If I get told off for drinking a pint of lager on a hot day, just think how overjoyed they're going to be when I disappear completely. In a motor car. With firearms.” Lambert was no longer muttering, but he was still far from his customary good humor.
“I think Amy was being facetious. You don't really need to bring any pistols along,” said Jane.
“I wasn't being a bit facetious,” Amy protested. “I think it would be quite a good idea.”
Jane ignored her. “I'll leave at sunrise.”
Amy consulted an almanac from one of the library shelves and spoke directly to Lambert. “The sun rises at three minutes to six tomorrow. Don't be late. She means it. I can tell.”
“By the rushy-fringed bank,
Where grows the willow and the osier dank,
My sliding chariot stays”
L
ambert hurried back to Glasscastle from the Brailsford house. Voysey was not in. Neither was Stewart, Provost of Wearyall. Lambert sent a message in at the lodgings of Victor Stowe, Provost of St. Joseph's, and was fortunate enough to catch him just as he returned from his dinner.
Stowe led Lambert into the tower room that served as his study. From the second floor of the tower, the windows opened onto St. Joseph's Green like a box at the opera. It was dark, but even Glasscastle by night made a fine view. Stowe waved Lambert to a chair and sat at a writing table beside the window. “What brings you here, young man?”
Lambert matched Stowe's directness. “Fell has disappeared.”
“What, again?” Stowe seemed pleased with this comeback. “Some of his students have been making that complaint since the end of the summer term.”
“I want to make certain the authorities know about this. I think something has happened to him.” Lambert made sure Stowe knew about the intruder and went on to describe the state of Fell's study. “I'm going to look for him.”
“Dear me, where? It's a big country, and Mr. Fell is free to go where he likes in it.” Although Stowe's expression was serious, Lambert was sure he was being humored.
“Is Fell free? I know he refuses to work on the Agincourt Project, but he knows the project exists. We don't know where he's gone or who he's with. Won't that trouble the men in charge of imperial security?” Lambert countered. “Shouldn't you tell someone?”
“The project concluded yesterday,” said Stowe. “Its importance has diminished considerably since the ministry announced its decision to redirect the funding to the aviation project at Famborough.”
“Concluded?” Lambert felt as if he'd been punched in the stomach.
Stowe looked rueful. “I suppose it violates the basic tenets of imperial security to admit as much. But Meredith always spoke highly of you. I'm surprised he didn't tell you himself.”
“Tell me what? I had an accuracy trial just this afternoon. Mr. Voysey and Mr. Wright worked with me for hours. The project can't have concluded.”
“Did they? Are you sure?” Stowe frowned. “Meredith must have persuaded them to pursue an ancillary line of thought. Must be an addendum to a memo somewhere. Blast. I can't keep up with the paperwork.” He rifled through the documents heaped on the table before him. “Meredith's stubbornness is notable. I believe he's gone to London to try to speak with Lord Fyvie directly.”
“When did Meredith find out the funding was to go to Farnborough?” Lambert was remembering the peace he'd felt in Upton's rooms. Had Meredith guessed the project was
coming to a close? Was that why he'd suggested that visit?
“Blasted paperwork. I can't find it.” Stowe gave up and shoved his stacks of paper back into place. “First thing this morning. The Vice Chancellor told Stewart and me after dinner last night. That's why I was rather surprised to see you now. Thank you for reporting Fell's departure. I'll make it known to the appropriate authorities.”
“Thank you.” Lambert spoke at random as he rose and started for the door. He didn't know what to say next, let alone what to do next.
Stowe followed him, abruptly solemn. “As of now, I'm officially informing you that the project is complete. Should you be needed for any further studies stemming from the project, you will be invited to resume your duties as an expert marksman, so be sure you leave a forwarding address with the Bursar before you go. You will need to see him anyway, to collect your wages.” Stowe shook Lambert's hand and his formal air vanished as quickly as it had come. “Congratulations. You have been a great help, you know. What will you be doing after this?”
Lambert blinked and frowned. “The project is finished. I'm leaving.”
“Not immediately, old man.” Stowe chuckled. “We aren't turning you out in the street, you know. No need to catch the very next ship that sails. While you are making your travel plans, I suggest you keep your eye on the newspapers. I think we'll let a few of the finer points out in rumor, just to keep the boys at Farnborough on their toes.”
Through his stampeding thoughts, Lambert could make
sense of only one thing. This was the end of his time at Glasscastle. After this, he was exiled for good.
“You can have a pint or two to celebrate,” offered Stowe, as he saw Lambert out. “It must be a long time since you've had a chance to sink one.”
“Yes, of course. All sorts of luxuries I can take up again,” Lambert replied, and was proud of how normal he sounded, only mildly strangled. “Can't wait.”
“That's better,” said Stowe, “that's the spirit. Good luck, eh?” He shook hands with Lambert again as he let him out into the moonlit night. “Good luck.”
Adrift in the dark, at first Lambert walked at aimlessly, the pea-gravel path crunching underfoot. Not until he recognized the peppery scent of the marigolds in the Holythorn kitchen garden did he realize his heart had taken him back to the bench outside Wearyall. He sank down on the bench and let the evening chant ease his mind to emptiness.
Lambert sat there for a long time. He let the music fill him, knowing it would have to last him all his life. The leaves shifting ceaselessly overhead rustled silver behind the golden thread of the chant. Around him in the shadows, all the beauty and power of Glasscastle slept unseen in the dark.
Maybe Voysey was right. Maybe Glasscastle was not for the likes of Lambert. But something in that deep music had awakened something deep in him. The only true failure, Lambert promised himself, would be to forget that one had ever awakened, to permit oneself to sleep again.
Take what you need and let the rest go.
In his brief time at Glasscastle,
it had been granted to Lambert that he discover the existence of such music. Nothing could take that knowledge from him. On this side of the River Jordan, one had to travel light. Therefore, Lambert must let even Glasscastle go, and take with him only the changes the music had made in him.
At last, with slow steps, Lambert returned to the rooms he had shared with Fell. The valise he'd packed approximately one hundred years ago—in other words, that morning—was at the foot of his bed. He opened it and stared at the neatly packed contents. These things had been indispensable mere hours ago. With a sigh, Lambert emptied it all out on the bed, ready to start over.
There was a knock at the door. Lambert answered it, trying hard not to hope it was a message from Fell. It wasn't. Two young men stood there, unmistakably undergraduates. Both were fair, but one was built like a string bean, the other a potato.
“Pardon the intrusion,” said the string bean. His tone made it clear that he did not care if anyone pardoned him or not. “My name is Herrick. This is Williams. We're here to speak with Mr. Fell. Please ask him to be so good as to see us.”
“I don't have to ask him. He can't see you. He isn't here.” The undergraduates showed every sign of wanting to elbow past him into the room but Lambert did not budge. “It's mighty late for a social call, don't you think?”
“This isn't a social call,” Herrick said. “We must see Mr. Fell.”
Williams, the potato, was more polite, almost apologetic. “You see, he hasn't sent our marks to the Registrar yet. We don't know if we're still students of Glasscastle or if we've
graduated. I don't mind staying on for the summer, not at all. Chanting clears my mind, you see. I like it. But Michaelmas term is coming up in a few weeks and it would be so embarrassing to be here if we're not supposed to be. Terribly embarrassing.”
“I see your problem. Too bad someone else is going to have to solve it.” Lambert was about to shut the door on them when a thought struck him. No chance of Glasscastle hushing up Fell's disappearance if the undergraduates knew about it. “Mr. Fell has been abducted. Ask the Provosts if you don't believe me. Now, go away.” Lambert closed the door and locked it while the young men were still gaping at him, mouths working like fish. There was more knocking, but Lambert ignored it. In fifteen minutes, they had given up and gone.
Lambert returned to his room. The bed was strewn with the contents of his valise, most of which he tidied away in the wardrobe. His shaving things he put back on the washstand, ready to use in the morning, then repack. He wrapped his Colt Peacemaker in his oldest shirt and tucked it in a corner of the valise with a generous supply of cartridges, then added a compass, a box of lucifer matches and a change of underclothes. Lambert studied the result. Travel with Jane was sure to be a very different proposition from travel with Fell. For a moment, he regretted his long-lost Bowie knife, then he topped off the valise with two clean collars and went to bed.
 
T
he sun was coming up when Lambert reached the Brailsford house. The late summer sunrise changed color moment
by moment as the world turned toward the light. By the time Lambert rang the bell, the sun had edged clear of the horizon and the gaudy colors of cloud and sky had faded. A fine summer day had begun, the first day of his life after Glasscastle. Lambert had precisely one minute to contemplate that milestone before the door opened.
“You're late.” Jane joined him on the doorstep. “Let's go.” She was wearing a plain linen motoring coat over a gray dress, driving gloves like gauntlets almost to her elbows, and the largest hat he'd seen yet. Its broad brim strained against the gauzy motoring veil she had stretched over it and knotted beneath her chin.
“You look like you're ready for a hard day's bee-keeping.” Lambert winced the moment the words slipped out, but it was too late to take them back.
“How kind of you to say so,” Jane replied tartly. “You look as if you didn't sleep a wink last night.”
Behind them, the door opened and Amy peered out. She wore something white and graceful. With her hair loose down her back, she looked like Lucia di Lammermoor, about to run elegantly mad. Lambert had no trouble keeping that thought to himself, for before he could speak, Amy hushed them both.
“You said you'd leave at dawn,” Amy reminded Jane. “Go. Find Robert for me!”
“We're going, we're going.” Jane replied. Lambert waved farewell to Amy and followed Jane back to the carriage house where the motor car waited. Something bulky filled the boot and rear seat, but Lambert couldn't tell what it was,
as canvas had been tied down over it to protect the cargo. “What's all that?”
“Just my luggage,” said Jane, sliding into the driver's seat and donning her goggles. “Give it a twirl, please?”
With private gratitude that he hadn't brought more than one small satchel, Lambert wedged his valise into the Minotaur and went around front. Lambert cranked up the motor and took the place beside Jane. She reversed smoothly out into the street and headed out of the town as the sun climbed the sky to their right.
Lambert decided he was either more comfortable sitting in the front seat than the back, or Jane's driving style was more conservative this morning. She took her time leaving the confines of the town. Lambert, intent on savoring what might be his last drive through the place, was glad he had a clear view from the passenger's seat. He wanted to appreciate the look of things in the early light, not watch it go past in a blur. Gray stone walls seemed to glimmer silver. Greenery still damp with last night's dew set off the brilliance of blossoms opening to the sun.
At that hour, the streets were nearly deserted. Down a side road, Lambert thought he glimpsed his drayman on morning rounds. Here and there a cat was tucked up waiting on a doorstep. Otherwise, they had Glasscastle town almost to themselves. It was a lovely sight, ivy over stone in the rising day. Lambert reminded himself that he would return, if only to fetch his remaining possessions, but the pang of departure was sharp.
“Nice place,” Lambert said, when all that remained was
the silhouette of Glasscastle Hill in the distance behind them.
“Not bad,” said Jane. “Get out the map case, will you? We're on the Wells road. From there we bear north for Bristol, but we must cross the Severn eventually.”
While extracting the leather map case from beneath his seat, Lambert noticed Amy's spindle dangling from one of the knobs on the dashboard. He eyed it narrowly, but there didn't seem to be anything more to its motion than the steady sway natural to their momentum. “Did Amy make you bring that along as a good luck charm?”
“You never know. It might be useful. I'm not sure of our precise route yet.”
Lambert watched the spindle swing aimlessly from one direction to the next. “If it starts pointing to Ludlow, what do we do?”
“I suppose we go to Ludlow.” The goggles made it impossible to read Jane's expression but she didn't sound any more serious than Lambert. “I hope it won't take offence if we stick to the road.”
“I brought my penknife. If it gets out of hand, I'll cut it loose.” Lambert wrestled with the clasp on the map case. In less than a mile, he'd managed to pry it open and peer inside. After a few more miles of shuffling through the contents of the case, he stopped to stare at Jane. In addition to the usual two-shilling Bartholomew's sections, mounted on linen, two miles to the inch, the case held other maps. “Quite an assortment you have in here.”

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