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Authors: Caroline Stevermer

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Finally, the Provosts of Glasscastle wished to confirm that the warden of the west, denounced by the forward-thinking as a remnant of folk belief, existed in truth. It was Glasscastle's proud boast that the new warden of the west, Nicholas Fell, was one of their own. Doubtless, the Provosts announced, he would fulfill his duties—all his duties—illustriously, to the greater glory of Glasscastle.
By three o'clock, the Provosts had declared the inquiry concluded and the investigation closed. The theater was cleared. All members of the colleges of Glasscastle were to return to their duties.
There was plenty of time to talk the news over before they joined Porteous for sherry in his rooms.
 
 
P
orteous was more expansive than Lambert had ever seen him. His good mood might have owed something to the splendid comfort of the rooms he occupied in St. Joseph's, well shaded, quiet, with just enough summer-scented breeze through the open windows to be pleasantly cool even at the height of the afternoon. The furnishings were Georgian, the tapestries on the wall Jacobean, and the carpets Persian. The sherry would not have been out of place on Mount Olympus itself.
Robert and Amy stayed close together, close enough to touch. Fell kept his distance from the entire group. Lambert found himself morbidly aware of every step Jane took. He tried to mask his response to her by focusing fixedly on Porteous instead. Porteous, if he noticed anything, merely took Lambert's interest as his due.
“I'm delighted you could all accept my invitation.” Porteous gazed affably around at the five of them. “I have a proposal to put before Mr. Lambert and I hope you will all join me in urging that he accept it.”
Lambert put his glass down and set himself to listen to Porteous with close attention.
Porteous cleared his throat. “Mr. Lambert, I hope that you will give the Provosts of Glasscastle great pleasure by consenting to attend a short ceremony in the Wearyall College chapel before hall this evening. There you will be invited to matriculate as a student of Glasscastle. Stowe, Stewart, Russell, Brailsford, and I approve wholeheartedly of the idea. We trust that you will accept our invitation.”
Amy gave a little handclap of delight, and exclaimed,
“Oh, how splendid.” Robert beamed. Jane did too, and the smiles made their family likeness more marked than usual. Fell said nothing but watched Lambert intently, as if studying his response to the offer.
Lambert was glad he'd put his sherry down. Otherwise he would have dropped the glass for sure. “You—you want me to be a student of Glasscastle?” He could not have heard correctly. “That's impossible.”
Porteous said, “You've taken an unorthodox path to our door, but what of that? If the Agincourt Project accomplished anything, it has been a testimonial to the excellence of your perception.”
Lambert hardly knew where to start. “But—to begin with, I'm an American.”
Porteous frowned. “So you are. What of it? We haven't had an American student for many years, but there was no difficulty the last time we did.”
“No more difficulty than the usual students pose,” said Fell.
“There is almost always an American or two at Greenlaw,” Jane said. “Fortunately, for as a rule, they bring excellent gramophone records.”
“Yet you claim Greenlaw teaches decorum,” said Robert, shaking his head in mock reproof.
“Before or after they teach you the two-step?” Amy asked Jane, playing along with her husband's reaction.
“At Greenlaw, my fellow students taught me to dance the mazurka, the ziganka, and the sword dance,” Jane declared. “All the faculty ever taught us was the danse macabre—that was at comp time.”
With difficulty, Lambert tore his attention from Jane, and said, “Voysey explained to me that Americans have no magic. Because of emigrating across the ocean. It's evolutionary.”
Porteous smiled. “Voysey told you that, eh? An opinionated fellow, young Voysey. No shortage of convictions there. He had his theories and he held them fast. In time, he might have made them policy. As yet, however, there is no rule in the statutes that pertains in any way to Americans.”
“Hardly surprising,” said Jane. “I don't know when the statutes were written but I'd be surprised if Glasscastle had even heard of America, let alone spared a thought for her citizens.”
“The greater part of the statutes were recorded in 1559, at the time of Elizabeth's first Parliament,” said Robert. “There have been amendments since, of course.”
“Oh, of course.” Jane nodded. “One or two, at most, I should imagine.”
“One or two hundred, more likely,” said Amy. “I've read them, you know. A good wife makes it her business to learn about the challenges her husband faces.”
“Never mind about statutes. What about the Latin requirement?” Lambert demanded.
Porteous allowed himself to be distracted from the sherry. “Ah, yes. Latin. You'll have to learn it while you study magic. It would be simpler if you knew it before you started the chants, but it can't be helped. Provided you pass the proficiency test before you finish your studies, we are prepared to waive the requirement for your entrance.”
Lambert gaped at him, looked at Fell, then back at Porteous. “What about background? Voysey said Glasscastle demanded
its students have the right background.”
“I defy Voysey, or anyone else, to find anything whatsoever about background in the written statutes. If you have been invited to matriculate, you must have the right background. Because, you see, Glasscastle is always right.” Pørteous's smugness was palpable.
“Oh, very true,” said Fell, a touch sarcastically.
Jane looked amused, her attention firmly back on the matter at hand. “Yes, that's right, isn't it? How convenient.”
Robert and Amy looked on approvingly.
Fell cleared his throat and caught Porteous's eye.
“Oh, yes. One more thing,” Porteous said. “We thought the fees for tuition might pose some difficulty, so we have taken the liberty of arranging a loan for you. The terms are quite reasonable, I assure you.”
Lambert was at a loss. “I don't know what to say. I could be a student of Glasscastle?” Could he have found his own country after all? “A true student? Not just here to help out with odd jobs?”
“A true student,” Porteous assured him.
Lambert was still dubious. “So there won't be any more tests of marksmanship?”
Robert said, “With the funding for the Agincourt device removed, we have no need of marksmanship. Nor will we be seeing any more government research projects, I'm afraid. Tobias and Sopwith will have their work cut out for them to meet the expectations they've created for their aviation experiments at Farnborough. Frankly, I don't envy them the task.”
“A student of Glasscastle.” Lambert whispered the words
but even to his own ears, they didn't seem quite real. He shook himself and said it again more loudly. “A student of Glasscastle.”
Fell smiled at Lambert.
“Aviation,” breathed Jane, eyes wide. Then, even more softly, with such deep feeling it approached reverence, she added,
“Aeroplanes
.
”
Robert looked alarmed by her response but said nothing.
Amy looked from Robert to Jane and back again. “Robert?” She turned back to Jane. “What do you mean,
aeroplanes
?”
“You will need to tell us precisely why you wish to become a student of Glasscastle. You are somewhat older than the usual applicant, but that might prove a point in your favor,” Porteous said. “It sometimes takes the younger fellows a few terms just to settle down and study properly.”
Lambert's stomach seemed to be tying itself into a succession of knots. “I don't know what to say.”
“No need to say anything. Not at this time. Just have your answer ready by the time you join us in the chapel at seven.” Porteous clapped Lambert on the shoulder and called for more sherry all around. “Oh, and it's a formal occasion. So do dress accordingly.”
Lambert looked at Fell, who was smiling ruefully down at his untouched glass. After failing to catch his friend's eye, Lambert turned to Jane, who was smiling at him. The smile put new life into the knot in his stomach. “What shall I do?”
“Accept, of course,” said Jane. “You've been pining to study at Glasscastle ever since you arrived. Amy had told me all about it by the second day I was here.”
Lambert blinked at the thought of Amy and Jane talking about him, then managed to say, “Oh, I pined all right—when I first got here.” He hesitated. “I've been put in my place so many times since then—To hell with them,” he finished, under his breath.
“Obviously, you've made them reconsider. No mean feat, that.” Jane sobered slightly. “Glasscastle wants you, Lambert. If I know anything about you, I know that you want Glasscastle the way I want Greenlaw. This is your chance. Take it.” For a long moment, Lambert looked into Jane's eyes. Silence drew out between them until at last, Jane broke it. “Think it over. You have lots of time.”
“Oh, lots. Until seven o'clock,” Lambert said gloomily. It was too much time—yet it wasn't near enough, not when it was impossible to think straight. His heart wanted to leap out of his chest. His pride was afire. He had made them all change their minds. His brain told him that there would be plenty of drawbacks to signing on as a student of Glasscastle. For one thing, when would he ever get the chance to see Jane again? Confused, he turned to Fell. “What do you think?”
From the amusement in Fell's eyes, he had been watching Lambert's every thought chase itself across his face. “what I think is of no consequence. The important thing is what you think. Take as much time as you need to be sure of your decision. But choose what you truly want and consider why you want it. You chose well when I tested you with the golden West. Now choose again.” Fell lifted his glass. “Ladies and
gentlemen, I give you a toast—to the very good health of Samuel Lambert.”
 
A
t seven o'clock, Samuel Lambert found himself listening at the door of the chapel of Wearyall College. How often had he heard the chanting from his bench on the far side of the cloister garden wall? How often had he heard the voices raised as one, though not raised far, as he heard them now, through the heavy chapel door? How would they sound when he was inside, when he heard them fully? How would they sound to him when he was among them, no longer an outsider?
Lambert hesitated. He was wearing his best clothes and found them uncomfortable, even as the August heat faded toward evening. Fell had knotted the white tie for him and pronounced him acceptably formal. Could he really stand to be dressed up regularly? Top hat, white tie, and stiff shirtfront dressed up? Could he bear the foreign customs for the full three years of a Glasscastle education? Could anything live up to the expectations Lambert had? Could he be sure he wasn't dooming himself to disappointment and disillusion? Could he be sure of anything?
The urge to hear the music more clearly spurred Lambert on. He opened the door and stepped inside. Wearyall. Chapel was not as grand as St. Mary's, but it seemed more beautiful to Lambert, for the early evening light through the windows was augmented by candles. Somewhere incense was burning, a tendril of pure sweetness that matched the music. Lambert couldn't see where the students were, but their
chanting made his throat go tight. He took off his hat.
Alone, Lambert walked down the nave to the altar. There, flanked by candelabra, stood James Porteous, jovial as Old King Cole, and Cecil Stewart, almost as rosy after his inroads on Porteous's excellent sherry. Nearby, but clearly a mere onlooker, Nicholas Fell stood. All three men were magnificent in full academic regalia. Under his arm, Fell had a book and bundle of black fabric. He kindly took charge of Lambert's top hat, putting it safely aside.
“Welcome, Samuel Lambert,” said Porteous as he handed Lambert a candle in a wooden cup. “Do you come seeking power?”
“No.” The word came out a crooked whisper and Lambert cleared his throat. “No, sir.”
“What do you seek?” asked Porteous.
Lambert hesitated, trying for words with which to capture the feeling the music gave him. “Knowledge, sir. Understanding.” The wooden cup gleamed with use. Lambert wondered how many hands had held it before his.
“What more?” asked Porteous. His hand was still outstretched toward Lambert's unlit candle and the jovial look had faded.
Lambert didn't try to guess what Porteous was waiting to hear. He couldn't guess. He didn't want to. He only wanted to speak the truth. “That's all, sir. I want to learn. I want to work. And I want to learn to make that music. I want to chant.”
For the first time, Stewart spoke. “Can you sing?”
“Not like they do in the opera,” Lambert answered. “But I can sing hymns as well as anybody.”

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