The Mislaid Magician (2 page)

From the piercing cries that just began to emanate from the nursery, I should judge that someone has spilt boiling water on a lion, or Edward has frightened one of the maids, or Laurence has awakened from his nap. The only thing that rules out the possibility of all three is the happy circumstance that we do not own a lion. My appearance on the scene will only intensify the din, but if I don’t demonstrate a proper degree of concern, Edward will keep finding ingenious new ways of frightening the maids, and that will never do.

So I leave you, Cecy, precisely as you last saw me, halfway to distraction, but still your devoted,

Kate

Dearest Kate,

Georgy arrived on a mail coach? With only one maid? Of all the utter goosecaps! Depend upon it, the news will be all over the Ton within a week, and all the gossips will be saying that she has run away from her husband. (I don’t suppose that
is
what she has done? If she has, it would be the first piece of good sense she’s shown in years—and coming straight to you would be the second. The gossips cannot make a mysterious elopement out of it if Georgy is known to be staying with her sister, after all.)

I hope she does not keep you guessing as to her purposes for too long. The Season will be starting soon, and once it does, her behavior is certain to be the primary topic of conversation. Fortunately, it will probably not be long before some new scandal arises, but in the meantime, I should like to be prepared with whatever story the pair of you decide to set about. Or, more likely, with whatever story you and I decide to set about, as Georgy is seldom of any help in such matters. It is
just
like Thomas to abscond at such a moment.

As regards Thomas’s study, I am quite certain that Eleanor was up to her pigtails in the matter, right along with Arthur, but even I would not venture to guess which of them was more responsible to begin with. Had I been able to interrogate them both immediately after Arthur’s revelation, I might perhaps have discovered more, but Eleanor was too ill at the time, and now it is much too late. Arthur may take after me (as James often asserts), but I think Eleanor is more like you (which may have something to do with Thomas’s susceptibility to her wiles)—at least as regards concocting plausible tales.

On rereading my letter, I see that it sounds rather snappish. Do believe that I am not out-of-reason cross with Georgy; she has always been a pea-goose, and I suppose she always will be. I am simply out of sorts this morning. James has been gone since Monday; the children are all absolutely
full
of colds (except for Arthur) and running Nurse ragged; and Arthur has been running
me
ragged.

I expect I had best tell you the whole, but you are
not
to worry. Last night, I was sitting up rather late over my books (what with the children’s illnesses, it was the first opportunity I had had to look over the copy of Gregorius’s
Arcana
that Thomas so kindly loaned me). It was well past eleven when there was a soft rap on the study door, and a moment later, Arthur slipped in.

I was at first inclined to read him a lecture, for though I do not keep so complex a magical laboratory as Thomas’s, I try not to neglect my Arts, and the children all know that they are not allowed to interrupt when James or I are in the study. But Arthur was plainly much agitated; his eyes were wide and he was as tense as one of the strings in your pianoforte.

“Mama,” he said before I could speak, “I am very sorry, but there is somebody outside in the garden, and I think he is trying to get in.”

“Is there indeed,” I said. I marked my place and set the book aside, then rose in a leisurely fashion, for I have found that a show of great calm is very reassuring to agitated children. I was not nearly so sanguine as I appeared, however. Arthur is a
creative
child, but not generally an
overimaginative
one, and so I had every dependence on the accuracy of his statement. “You did very well to come to me first, instead of alarming the servants,” I told him as I snuffed the candle. “Now, show me.”

We went down the hallway and across to the back of the house. There is a small, oddly shaped room there that is used mainly for storage. The window bows out over the back of the house, and moonlight was streaming in. Arthur scrambled into the window seat and pointed.

At first, I did not see anything. Then the bushes below the scullery window shook, and wobbled, and the dark figure of a man emerged. All I could determine with certainty was that he was of medium height, for he wore a workman’s cap and a jacket that seemed to be several sizes too large for him. He brushed himself off and started toward the next window.

I was not much concerned, for he must have tried several of the rear windows before he reached the scullery, and the wards were holding. I was therefore tolerably sure that he was no magician. I whispered to Arthur to be very quiet and not move, and then I cast the Greater Cessation. Fortunately, it is not a long spell, if one already has solid wards in place to use as a base.

Arthur was, surprisingly, a model of decorum. I finished the spell and looked down, expecting the prowler to be frozen in place. Instead, I saw him continue to move, though very slowly, as if someone had attached lead weights to his arms and legs. His head turned, and then he began to— well,
run
is not precisely the right word, as even Baby Alexander could have caught up with him easily. Still, it was clear that he was
trying
to run, and he did succeed in moving. And the farther away from the house he got, the faster he went.

I shook off my surprise and turned to Arthur, who was staring, wide-eyed. “Go and fetch Mr. Hennesy,” I told him. He barely took time to nod before he bolted for the door.

Needless to say, I did not sleep for the rest of the night. First I set Hennesy and the footmen to scouring the grounds. Though I had very little hope that they would find anything, I thought that the evident activity would discourage any further attempts at intrusion.

Then I took Arthur around the house to review the wards with me. He is not, of course, advanced enough in his studies to cast the wards himself, and while I could certainly attune them to him (as they are already tuned to James and myself), I had no intention of doing so. But by the time I finished explaining matters to Hennesy, it had become quite clear that Arthur was far more thrilled than frightened, and that for the promise of a farthing two years’ hence, he would have happily joined in the search. I wished to give his thoughts another direction, as I do not want to have to roust out the entire household again
tomorrow
night to look for Arthur.

So I impressed upon him the importance of the house warding spells, and told him that, as he is responsible for his sisters and Baby Alexander while James is in London, I would show him how to read them tomorrow. I am about to go fulfill my promise. He is quite far enough advanced to learn the simplest of the warding cantrips, and I hope that it will keep his mind safely occupied. I expect, however, that for the next several days, at least, I will be informed of every thin spot in the warding spell almost as soon as it develops.

Hennesy and his fellows found no trace of our prowler. As soon as I finish with Arthur, I intend to set a lesser ward about the grounds near the house—nothing strong enough to be noticeable, just a sort of alarm bell to let me know of any unanticipated visitors. It is all very well to say that I would have known immediately if he had somehow managed to get through the house wards, but I find that I would very much rather know of his presence
before
the house wards were breached.

The consensus in the lower hall is that the prowler was some itinerant hoping to steal food or perhaps a little money. This seems plausible, as anyone who knew Tangleford Hall would know that there is a magician in residence and would therefore have anticipated the house wards. The only flaw in this argument is the peculiar way in which the prowler evaded the holding spell I cast. I have not pointed this out to anyone; the servants are quite upset enough as it is.

Since I have not heard from James, I expect he will be home in another day, or perhaps two. He is very good about keeping me informed when he is away, but he is far more casual when he knows he will return soon. For once, I shall have news as interesting as his to tell him!

Your exhausted,

Cecy

Dear Cecy,

I hope this letter finds you and the children well. I congratulate you on having dealt exceedingly well with your prowler. Indeed, you have almost convinced me not to be alarmed on your behalf. But only almost! Do take care, Cecy!

Forgive me. I know you do.

Thomas is not yet home from his venture to Waycross. Thus, I have yet to tell him of the intrusion into his study. Nor has Thomas yet seen the letter James wrote him, for it arrived in the post after he departed. I do hope it contains nothing of vital importance.

Thomas has also missed his mother’s latest letter. Lady Sylvia is in her usual fine health and spirits, busy as ever providing good counsel to the league of her old friends—most recently, the proprietor of Ragueneau’s pastry shop in the Rue St. Honoré.

Lady Sylvia helped Ragueneau rid his kitchens of a spell that soured the milk and turned butter rancid the moment it arrived in the place. Ragueneau had suspected a competitor of casting the spell to ruin his business, but no such thing. Ragueneau’s son, Lady Sylvia discovered, had devised a spell to keep pastry cream from ever curdling. This spell, as so many seem to, had unexpected consequences. After a few false starts, Lady Sylvia was able to refine the pastry-cream spell to prevent any further ill effects. Even Ragueneau concedes the resulting pastries surpass all previous efforts. His gratitude to Lady Sylvia has been expressed in chocolate éclairs.

I am sorry to report I have made no progress at all in fathoming the mystery of Georgy’s visit to us. For all her sudden professions of fondness for the simple country life, from the moment of her debut, she has been happiest in London. Of all times to choose to rusticate herself, the beginning of the London Season is about the least likely.

To think I used to fault Georgy for being a watering pot. I would give a good deal for her to go off on one of her tearful flights just now, for when she cried, I could nearly always get her to tell me what was troubling her. These days, unless she is being disagreeable to the servants, she is as stoic as a soldier.

Georgy being Georgy, she is in her very best looks. Pale silence has always suited her best, I fear. The only time she smiles is when she is talking with Edward. Indeed, when she is talking with Edward there are moments when Georgy looks only a little more than six years old herself.

Perhaps I refine too much upon Georgy’s abrupt arrival. Perhaps there is no mystery about it. Perhaps it is only that she had a whim to see Thomas and me, precisely as Georgy insists.

Yet, consider. Georgy refuses all social engagements, neither paying calls nor receiving any. She waits for the post with such fidelity, I could set the clock by her, yet she seems relieved rather than disappointed when she receives no letters. Strangest of all, she devotes hours to reading the scandal sheets and even the newspapers. It is most unlike her.

What of Georgy’s husband, you ask? I wish I could tell you. His name has not crossed her lips. No message has come to her from him, nor (to the best of my knowledge) has she posted even a line of correspondence to him. The only assurance I could wrest from Georgy (and only after I reminded her at some length that it is the duty of sisters to protect one another) is that he has not mistreated her in any way. Georgy is not afraid of him, I swear, but she is afraid of something. I think she’s hiding here, Cecy.

Georgy has made me promise to keep her presence here in strictest confidence. Of course I will do so, but I made her grant me an exception in your case. I cannot imagine that anyone would ask you Georgy’s whereabouts, but you will be in London soon, and you may well encounter some unlooked-for social circumstance there. So please do bear it in mind that Georgy is not really here at all. I know you will handle matters far more adroitly than I would, so we trust you with this secret.

Believe that I will write the moment I learn anything else pertinent to the matter. Or indeed, the moment I learn anything pertinent to
anything.
Writing to you is the one spot of civilization in a daily routine dominated by wailing children, muddy shoes, and wet dogs.

With all the usual best wishes and even more affection,

Kate

Dearest Kate,

The children are much better, by some measures, which is to say that they have reached the stage in their recovery at which no persuasion, no bribery, and no force can keep them abed. I shall be
exceedingly
glad when James returns. I had a note from him this morning, at long last, saying that he had expected to be back yesterday, but needed to remain in London a few more days. He includes no further details, save that he anticipates returning by the end of the week.

I find this rather odd, for it is most unlike the Duke of Wellington to call James urgently to town merely to chat, and then send him home again. I do hope that James is not staying to have the blue salon redone as a surprise for me, or anything similar. He is occasionally taken with such notions, and it does not
do.
But one really cannot lecture one’s husband on the suitability of the surprises he chooses, and after all, it is quite pleasant that he still thinks to do such things at all, even after ten years of matrimony.

Georgy is an utter goose, but if she wishes her whereabouts to remain unknown to anyone, I shall oblige her. I suppose I can simply look down my nose like Aunt Charlotte and inform people sternly that I do not wish to discuss the Duchess of Waltham, when they ask, but that may very well add fuel to the gossip, once it begins. If Georgy wishes to remain undiscovered
and
undiscussed, it would be better to have some tale to set about. Perhaps a sudden, urgent need for the latest in French pelisses? No one will look for her at Skeynes if we set it about that she has gone to Paris to shop.