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Authors: Caroline Stevermer

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Jane kept her tone suitably penitent. “I sent you a wire from London as soon as I arrived. I'm sorry I appeared before it did. It's just as well I never expect the fatted calf, isn't it?”
Robert frowned. “Oddly enough, I have no recollection of a prodigal sister anywhere in Scripture. I must say, your rackety ways seem to agree with you. You look splendid.”
“Thank you. So do you. Amy, of course, is looking particularly splendid these days.” Jane glanced across the table at her sister-in-law. “She always sets a high standard.” Amy had the complexion and coloring of a china doll but there was far more to her than met the eye. Neither her flaxen ringlets nor her wide blue eyes were her best feature, rather it was the gleam of lively common sense that lit her from within.
“Jane brought me this brooch from Paris.” Amy modeled
the delicate cameo for her husband. “Isn't it pretty?”
“Exquisite,” said Robert, after a brief but loving inspection of his wife. “Do your duties at Greenlaw permit you to spend much time in Paris, Jane?”
“It is on the way,” Jane said. “You've reminded me. Uncle Ambrose sends us all his love.”
“Dear old boy. I must write to him soon,” Robert said. “Have you come home to see the family? Unfortunate timing, if you have. Mama and Papa are in Scotland. Thomas is with his regiment and the last time he bothered to write, Alfred was in Orvieto. Something to do with studying the construction of a well they have there. He plans to spend the winter in Italy, I gather. Lord knows where Thomas's regiment will be.”
“What on earth are Mama and Papa doing in Scotland?” Jane asked. “I thought they could be counted upon never to go farther afield than Tunbridge Wells.”
“They're to stay with the Desmonds for the shooting.”
“Ah, yes. Shooting. Amy tells me you have an American to help you shoot things for your studies, Robin.” Jane saw no reason to beat about the bush. It was just the three of them at the table, after all. “What are you studying? Ornithology?”
“
I'm
not studying anything,” Robert replied. “Discretion, Amy. Discretion is vital.”
Amy smiled sunnily at her husband. “Why, darling, how can that be? You must have noticed by now that I haven't a shred of it.”
“Must you insist others notice it too? Oh, never mind. Yes, Jane. For the moment, I have Mr. Lambert on my staff. Let him alone. He's working.”
“What is he working on?”
“Curb your feminine curiosity just this once. Suffice it to say, there is work to be done, work vital to our imperial interests. You don't need the details.”
“Oh, very well” Jane felt unusually indulgent toward Robert. She was happy to see her eldest brother again. It had been several years and he had far less hair than she remembered. In addition, he'd grown more solid, positively substantial about the midsection. Perhaps the excellence of the family cook had something to do with that. Certainly the happy combination of food and wine played a large part in Jane's tolerant mood. “Since you feel so strongly about it, I'll leave your wild colonial boy to his own devices. I'm only making the sacrifice for you, though. He seems delightfully unpretentious compared with the usual Glasscastle man.”
Robert looked severe. “Lambert isn't a Glasscastle man, Jane, no matter what repellent stereotype that phrase may signify to you or to members of the popular press. He's a guest here and he's been good enough to help us with our research. That's all.”
“He's not a student, in other words?” prompted Jane.
Robert frowned. “Certainly not. Did he give you the impression he was?”
“Of course he didn't,” Amy said. “He's been put in his place quite thoroughly, Robert. You needn't worry about Mr. Lambert.”
“Not if he has you to defend him, obviously.” Robert beamed fondly at Amy as he tasted his wine. After a contented pause, he continued. “I was not worried about Lambert in quite that sense. It's the expert pestering Jane's capable of that concerns me. You let that man alone, understand?
He works hard and he can't satisfy your curiosity about what we're doing, so no interrogations. Understood?”
Jane surrendered with reluctance. “Understood.”
Robert studied her with as much intensity as he'd brought to his appreciation of the wine. “You haven't paid the slightest attention to my invitations to visit for years. What's brought you here now? It can't be pure family feeling.”
“Can't it?” Jane tried to look offended. “Why can't it be?”
“Because I know you, Jane. You were happy to leave the bosom of the family when you went off to France and you've been happy to spend most of your holidays on the Continent since. If you're here in Glasscastle instead, it's for a very good reason.” Robert kept up his scrutiny. “Honestly, now. What's the ulterior motive, Jane?”
Jane gave up on righteous indignation and settled for a confiding air. “I'm thinking of buying a motor car. A Blenheim Bantam, I thought. Small but sturdy.”
Robert snorted. “A Blenheim Bantam? Nonsense. Those things are barely big enough to warrant four wheels. If you were fool enough to try to drive one in London, you'd be crushed like an insect. No, if you're going to bother at all, you'd do far better to buy yourself a real motor car while you're about it. When did you take up motoring?”
“I learned last winter. Now I want something small I can keep at Greenlaw for runs to the railway station and back, things like that.” For once, Jane felt unalloyed fondness for her brother. He might be full of opinions about what sort of motor car was worth driving, but it would never cross his mind to tell her that she ought not drive one.
“Nonsense. You'll want a proper motor car if you need
one at all, which I doubt. I'll show you mine, give you an idea what you'd be missing.”
“
You
have a motor car, Robin? You astound me.” Jane had always viewed her brother as the third last person in the world to welcome any form of innovation. The last two people would be Mother and Father.
“Not just a motor car. A Morgan Minotaur. Purrs like a cat, growls like a lion, and—on a suitable stretch of racetrack—it can do thirty-five miles per hour. I'll take you and Amy for a run on Sunday afternoon. You'd like that, wouldn't you, Amy?”
Amy looked delighted by the idea. “I would. We might go to Wells. We could take a picnic lunch.”
Jane smiled at them both. “Robin, I have misjudged you. That sounds delightful.”
When the possibilities of a Sunday afternoon picnic had been thoroughly discussed, a companionable silence fell over the dinner table.
After a suitable pause, during which she made neat work of removing the worst of the bones from her portion of fish, Jane asked, “Do you know someone named Nicholas Fell? I understand he's a Fellow of Glasscastle.”
Robert looked exasperated. “Fell? Yes, of course I do. Save yourself the effort of questioning him. He has nothing to do with what we're working on.”
“No?” Jane looked up from her fish bones with interest. “What does he do, then?”
“He's a Fellow of Glasscastle, Jane.” Amy smiled tranquilly from Jane to Robert. “One might as well ask what a swan does, floating along the river.”
“That's not a bad analogy,” Robert conceded. “It's the effect we all strive to attain, certainly. To the world we present a facade of such effortless indifference that we might as well not be capable of magic at all. All seraphic calm on the surface, whilst among ourselves we know that underneath one paddles furiously, seeking one's own advantage all the while. Fell's not that sort.”
“Not a paddler, do you mean?” Jane asked. “Or not calm?”
“I mean he's not focused entirely on his own advancement. Unlike some I could mention. On the contrary. At times Fell hardly seems interested in advancement at all. He's not the sort to volunteer for extra duty on the gate, mind, but he is devoted to Glasscastle. Doesn't let anything distract him from his studies.”
“Mr. Fell doesn't care much for outward appearances,” said Amy. “His paddling is in the interest of pure scholarship.”
“A bit too pure, at times,” said Robert. “One might wish him to pay a trifle more attention to his students, but one can't have everything. Fell was invited to help with the project at the outset. He soon grew bored with us and went back to his own work. One favor he did us first, though. He volunteered to host Lambert. The two of them are even sharing Fell's quarters. Good luck, that, since it lets Lambert stay close by yet keeps him isolated from the inquisitive. No one is less curious about the project than Fell, so Lambert doesn't have to worry about letting information slip inadvertently.” Robert gave Jane a meaningful look. “You've promised, now—no interrogations.”
“I've promised,” said Jane. “Mr. Lambert knows Mr. Fell quite well, then?”
“Oh, yes. Not precisely David and Jonathan, but they seem to be good friends.” Amy said.
“Most considerate of Mr. Lambert, offering to call for me tomorrow afternoon.” Jane permitted herself to dwell on the thought of Mr. Lambert for a moment. There was something very striking about him. Of course it was only natural that she would find him attractive. So would she find any man that athletic, anyone who moved with such instinctive ease, anyone whose eyes held such utterly disarming modesty. Still, it would never do to let herself be distracted.
“Poor fellow just doesn't guess what he is in for. He's not afraid of you. Not yet.” Robert seemed inclined to drop the subject in favor of devoting himself to his meal. “Give him time.”
“Therefore when any favoured of high Jove
Chances to pass through this adventurous glade,
Swift as the sparkle of a glancing star,
I shoot from Heaven to give him safe convoy”
I
t was too hot that evening for the customary menu of meat and two vegetables, comprehensively boiled, but out of sheer habit Lambert ate dinner in hall just the same, right down to sampling the tray of cheeses offered as a final blow to the digestion. Even if he didn't eat much, it restored him
to be in the company of other people. Even if he didn't say much. There wasn't much chance.
Despite the weight of the meal, conversation at the table was lively. Lambert found himself between Cromer and Palgrave, Fellows of Holythorn for only a year, but pompous enough to have been there all their lives. About three times a week, they argued about the Bible. On the days they didn't, they argued about the weather, Chinese politics, and horses. Lambert didn't know anything about Chinese politics, but judging from their opinions about the Bible, weather, and horses, Lambert didn't set much store by anything either of them said. It turned out to be a Bible night.
“You can't argue that Scripture shouldn't be subject to scholarship.” Palgrave had a better head for claret than Cromer did. “Why should the Bible be different to any other book?”
“I never said it should.” Cromer said, “I never said it shouldn't be subject to whatever analytical method you choose. I said scholarship alone proves nothing. You may rank your hypotheses from least unlikely to most unlikely. That is the use of scholarship. You cannot understand Scripture in hypothetical terms.”
“I disagree. No rational man understands it in any other way,” said Palgrave. “Even if your approach made sense, which it does not, what is it good for? Where does it take us? Back to Bethlehem? Please.”
“Talk all you like about the historical Jesus.” Cromer calmed himself with more claret. “You're missing the point.”
“The point is, you prefer to believe the fairy tales. Three
kings bear gifts of gold and frankincense and myrrh to a child born in a manger.” Palgrave laughed to himself. “God put Adam to sleep and made Eve from one of his ribs. You'd rather believe folktales than admit that man has evolved like every other creature on this earth.”
“Who wouldn't?” Cromer countered. “As for utility, you must admit we learn more about women from the story of Adam and Eve than we do from anything in the pages of
On the Origin of Species
.”
The argument lasted precisely as long as the cheese and biscuits held out. When the meal was over, Cromer and Palgrave concluded their debate with the verbal equivalent of tennis players shaking hands at the net and went their separate ways.
As the room emptied, Lambert tried to picture anyone from Kiowa Bob's show taking part in such a polite disagreement. Chinese politics, maybe. But if the subject were something they cared about, say, the rival merits of a ham sandwich over roast beef, it would have been profanity for sure and fisticuffs quite likely.
That was one of the true ancient and legendary glories of Glasscastle, Lambert decided, an atmosphere where men could differ strenuously over matters both vital and trivial. No one needed to resort to force to get his ideas across. No one needed to defend himself on any level but that of his ideas. No argument was final. It would all be fought through again, perhaps not three times a week but whenever there was fresh information, or fresh energy to explore the subject.
Lambert caught himself. Pomposity must be contagious. If it was, Lambert hoped he would catch something else
along with it. Detachment, maybe. Or objectivity. Or plain persistence.
Alone, Lambert left the dining room. The place had cleared out early this evening. Too hot to linger. Lambert wished for a moment that Cromer and Palgrave had gone in for arguing about the weather instead of the Bible. With the change in the wind, from southwest to north, how could anyone mistake the break in the weather that was coming? Unless Cromer and Palgrave didn't read the signs the same way he did?
Lambert returned to the quarters he shared with Fell to find no trace of his friend. The rooms seemed unnaturally quiet. Lambert had to chide himself out of a fancy that the place was waiting for something to happen. Any anticipation was his own. Any sense of impending doom was nothing but a shadow cast by his own impending indigestion. The steady tick of the clock on the wall held no significance. The chime of the Glasscastle bells, complex and comforting, meant only that the time for bed approached.
At midnight, still with no word of Fell's whereabouts, Lambert retired with a faint sense of unease. There was nothing extraordinary about Fell's absence, let alone anything sinister, but it was not like Fell to leave for days without mentioning his plans. Even Fell knew how to send a telegram, after all.
Nightfall had done little or nothing to ease the warmth and stuffiness of Lambert's little room. It was hard to bear the heat. Lambert thought back to his first night at Glasscastle. It had been cold that night. He had spent the whole day playing the cowboy, thinking they'd be through with him
and send him on his way afterward. Instead they'd put him up in luxurious guest quarters, the kind of place they used for visiting dignitaries. Vice Chancellor Voysey had shown him there in person and asked if he had any questions.
Voysey was young for his post, hardly forty, but he had great dignity just the same. He was as lean as a whippet, at least an inch taller than Lambert, and held himself proud as Caruso. Not one to hide behind old-fashioned whiskers to try to enhance his authority, Voysey was clean-shaven, his wavy red-brown hair untouched by pomade. He dressed the same way everyone else at Glasscastle did, but Voysey's clothing seemed subtly different. There was a certain drama about Voysey, a bit of extra sweep to his academic robes, a bit of extra gloss to his top hat. Compared with the other men of Glasscastle, Voysey seemed to have good reason to be convinced of his own importance. Oddly, he seemed less smug than either Victor Stowe, Provost of St. Joseph's, or Cecil Stewart, Provost of Wearyall.
Lambert hadn't been impressed with the guest quarters. He liked the fine old furnishings, the coal fire smoldering in the fireplace, the dark green velvet curtains that covered the deep windows. All of that looked nice, but it felt miserable. The draughts in the room made the velvet curtains stir a little in the windows. He'd expected Glasscastle to be full of people who thought they were important, and it was. He'd expected they'd live in a place that looked fancier than the Ritz, but why did it have to be cold as an ice house?
Any questions? Voysey had asked. Lambert decided not to ask that one. “I am curious,” he admitted. “I've been wondering why you brought me here. Why target shooting at a
school that teaches magic? Couldn't you and your friends come up with some kind of magic that would eliminate the need for shooting?”
Voysey waved Lambert to one of the brocade chairs and folded himself into another. “In a way, that is why we brought you here. To help us with that very task. You're here to help in the search for knowledge. Pure research.”
Lambert frowned over this. “But you are using magic?”
Voysey leaned forward in his chair. “We're just beginning to learn the best ways to use the scientific method to explore the world. Someday we'll know all there is to know about everything. Until then, there is a certain discipline called, for want of a better word, magic.” Voysey's expression invited Lambert to smile at the use of such an old-fashioned term.
“All right.” Lambert thought it over. “Where are the wizards?”
Voysey laughed aloud. It made a world of difference to his long face. “That's an antiquated term. As well go into a room full of chemists and ask where the alchemists are. But for lack of a better answer, here I am.”
“
You're
a wizard?” Lambert had expected Voysey to be a bit less matter-of-fact about it.
“I study the discipline we haven't yet found a modern term for, yes.” Voysey scrutinized Lambert as if gauging how much listening he could do at a sitting. “I began my studies here as an undergraduate of St. Joseph's. My work found favor with the Vice Chancellor and Senior Fellows of the day and upon my graduation, I was invited to stay on as a Fellow of Holythorn. Since then, I have continued to study
as I took on more responsibility and authority. Let me emphasize that word.
Study
. We all study here, students, faculty, everyone.”
“You mean you study magic.” Lambert returned Voysey's inspection with his own. “Were you able to do it before you came here or did you have to learn it on the premises?”
“What little I have mastered, I learned here at Glasscastle.” Voysey sounded modest, but under his words ran pure confidence. Lambert judged Voysey was sure that what he called small magic would seem like a great deal to an outsider. He wondered if Voysey ever played poker. If he did, Lambert wondered how well he did at it.
“How did they know you could learn to do magic when they took you on?”
“Oh, they didn't know. Not with utter certainly.” Voysey's modesty took a turn toward the smug. “Though I showed as much promise as any arriving student.”
“Does Glasscastle pick students by how much promise they show?” Lambert asked.
“Not entirely. One day there will be a scientific test to determine aptitude. For now, we can't be absolutely sure of any student's capacity. We admit or reject a student on the basis of his background and his previous education. He's given a year of the scholarly regime to demonstrate a capacity for magic. If he does no more than chant for three terms, he has earned his room and board and repaid the efforts of his teacher. But if he does no more than chant, if we detect no aptitude for magic of any kind, he's dismissed at the end of the third term.”
“That chanting—” Lambert hesitated. He knew he could find words to describe what the chanting had seemed like to
him, but he wasn't sure he could do it without betraying more emotion than was seemly. “Is that magic?”
“You heard the chants?” Voysey seemed pleased. “I thought you were given the standard tour. Did they take you into one of the student chapels too?”
“No, I heard them from the garden. It was—I never heard anything like that before.”
“Once you leave Glasscastle, I don't suppose you ever will again.” Something in Lambert's expression seemed to soften Voysey. “I'm glad you appreciated the experience. Chants are a vital part of Glasscastle.”
“Those are just regular students doing it? You don't pick them for their voices?”
“Lord, no.” Voysey chuckled. “We don't want opera singers. We look for young men who can work well as part of the whole. The reliable, rather than the exceptional.”
“So—in theory—anyone could spend at least one year here? Once he was admitted?”
“In theory.” Voysey hesitated, then went on with gentle firmness. “Admission depends on more than mere interest. We look at each student's background and education. There are certain academic requirements, literacy in Latin, for example.”
Voysey's choice of words brought Lambert up short. “Background? What does that mean?”
Voysey looked uncomfortable. “I think you can deduce that from the students you've met. There is a certain, how shall I put it, a certain tone to the Glasscastle man. You'll learn to recognize it when you've spent more time here.”
Lambert thought he guessed what Voysey left unsaid.
There was no room at Glasscastle for men who came from the working class, nor from beyond the boundaries of the United Kingdom. “Does Glasscastle admit any foreign students?”
Voysey seemed relieved at the question. “Oh, of course. Within the standards I've already described. It's a curious thing, nationality. I have a theory. One of the traditions folk ignorance has insisted upon down the ages is that witches detest water.”
“I thought the tradition of ducking witches was based on the notion that water detested witches. Witches floated because the water wouldn't let them sink.” Lambert had read that in one of his mother's history books, he couldn't remember which one.
“Quaint, these folktales, aren't they?” Voysey spread his hands. “Scientifically, we're investigating a relationship between the practice of magic, possibly even the aptitude for the practice of magic, and the degree of discomfort occasioned when crossing large bodies of water. Our knowledge is limited now, but as the scientific principles are discovered, I believe this is one of those cases where superstition foreshadows fact. One day we'll be able to show that those hardy souls who colonized the New World were those who survived the ocean voyage—survived when many other travelers sickened and died on the way. It has been established that those, like yourself, who descend from that hardy stock have so little detectable aptitude for magic that we are safe in generalizing that no one from Canada, the United States, or any other part of the New World will show any skill at magic.”
“You really have proof of that?” Lambert thought of some
of the things he'd seen traveling with Kiowa Bob's show, some of the stories the Indians told, and he wondered what Voysey would make of them.

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