The Mislaid Magician (25 page)

James and I remain because someone knowledgeable must have charge of the terrier (if he suddenly resumes being the obnoxious Mr. Skelly, we shall have to scour England for a missing wizard and a superfluous dog) and because we have not yet discovered who is behind all these enchantments, what is causing the breakdowns and accidents at the railway, how this is all related to Parliament, or why someone should be doing any of the mysterious things that have occurred.

Do write as soon as ever you are able. Despite Mr. Wrexton’s scrying spell, and my confidence in his theories, I shall not feel truly reassured as to your well-being until I see it written in your own hand.

Your,

Cecy

(Enchanted by T.S.)

Dear James,

Excuse my handwriting. If I use my other hand, the result would be worse, I promise.

I have sent to London for help. I’ve written to everyone I can think of, from Old Hookey to the College. Our prowler is confined to the coal cellar, bound hand and foot and hung about with every spell and cantrip I can devise. Peace rules the infantry at last. Thus I will spare a moment of my well-earned rest to relate what happened today. Details can wait until we meet. Here are the bare bones.

I was in my study with Kate. I was trying to find a spell to turn Kate back to her right shape. Kate was destroying one of my old boots. I never cared above half for that pair, and it kept her quiet. She was gnawing away as I thumbed through spell books, when I was interrupted by a full chorus of “Uncle Thomas!” augmented by Edward’s “Papa!”

I unlocked the door and emerged, Kate at my heels, to discover Arthur, Eleanor, Drina, and Edward in a state of wild excitement. I tried to make them state their business in a methodical way, but they fell upon me and urged me toward the nursery. Much ado about the map, the soldiers, someone coming—bedlam in miniature. Imagine Kate dancing about us barking, and you have the scene exactly.

I resisted them just long enough to lock the study door, but then I was borne away helpless by the pack of shouting children.

In the nursery, peace prevailed. The nurses were chatting, the babies were asleep and thereby rendered harmless, and all seemed orderly to the casual visitor. I was hauled to the big table by the window, the one Kate has employed as a writing desk of late, where the plan of the house and grounds the children have drawn in such detail was spread out with Edward’s toy soldiers to hold the edges flat.

You must let Wrexton have the tutoring of your twins, James, however he protests the notion. The thought of that pair growing up with no more magical supervision than Cecy was given makes my blood run cold. With no formal training to speak of, and nothing more in the way of informal training than their mother’s general advice, my casual scrying lessons, and a few visits from some scrub of a tutor, Arthur and Eleanor have contrived a simple but effective warning spell.

The toy soldiers were placed along the route of the wards Kate and I rode each day. The spell was designed to move the soldiers to point at any place where a ward was disturbed, the way a magnet moves iron filings. As we watched—all of us but Kate, who was more interested in smelling Edward’s feet—the soldiers nearest the place where the Tingle Stone was marked on the map were moving to point their weapons at something crossing my boundary spell.

Impossible as it ought to have been to cross my boundary spell undetected, something—or someone—was doing just that.

I can’t remember precisely what I told the children. I know I ordered them to remain in the nursery, come what may. I ordered Kate to stay with them, but she paid even less attention to my wishes than usual. No, she came bounding downstairs after me and stood in the doorway barking while I marshaled the resources in my study.

Once made aware of the intruder, I was able to locate the place he had breached my defenses. It was the magician Penny and I had watched for, no question, the man who fled my best holdfast spell. I could almost smell his style of magic. He was coming slowly but steadily across the grounds, his route a beeline for the house. All the power at his disposal was focused on countering my spells. If the children hadn’t set the soldiers to guard their map, I would have had no warning until he was upon me.

I freely admit to a moment of indecision. Better to go out to meet him and engage him in the gardens? Or better to lie in wait and marshal the protective spells laid on the house itself? I always prefer the direct approach, but this time there were children to consider. I hesitated a moment too long, and he was at the door.

The Greater Cessation didn’t stop him. I ran to the door of the entry hall and cast it with all my might, then watched as he opened the front door despite my spells on lock and hinges, threshold and lintel. For the size of his magic, our intruder was not a very big man. His face was red as beetroot, but not with exertion. He was not even breathing hard when he stepped into the hall.

Kate growled most hideously as he entered our house. I agreed with her sentiments. This was the man we knew as Mr. Scarlet. Whatever the source of his magic, it was my duty to stop him.

Mr. Scarlet drew on formidable power. In the process of taking one another’s measure there in the entry hall, I learned his intent was not only to enter my home but to invade the very nursery itself. It took all my strength, training, skill, and cunning to counter him.

I have no use for false pride. It would be quite possible, given a sufficient quantity of magicians, to outmatch me, even on my home ground. I have no use for false modesty, either. On that day, in that place, Mr. Scarlet crossed the threshold, but he could go no farther. I met him and matched him. Locked in one another’s spells, with Kate circling and snapping at Scarlet, we battled to a stalemate.

I held him there, held my spell steady, and groped for reinforcements. I heard Georgy screaming behind me, harsh as a teakettle on the boil. No help there. I held Scarlet’s power locked in mine, my vision narrow with the need to concentrate, but from the corner of my eye I thought I saw grass snakes and bullfrogs coming to my aid. In addition to a plague of frogs, I gave Scarlet a plague of boils. That made him bellow, but his efforts held steady, and our deadlock continued.

Kate has, on occasion, accused me of an inability to take proper notice of the finer points of her wardrobe. She may well be right. I’m afraid that the precise moment of Kate’s transformation from foxhound to her true form all but escaped my notice. All I know is, one moment she was a foxhound, crouched and snarling at Scarlet’s feet. Fierce as a wolf, she sprang for his throat. Scarlet did his best to hold her off.

The next moment, she was my Kate again, in her proper shape but still at his throat, doing her best to throttle him with her bare hands. I had all I could do to keep him from striking her, but I held him fast.

Kate, bless her, did not permit her transformation to discompose her in the slightest. She kept her grip on Scarlet’s throat even as she repeated the spell she uses to keep her hair up. If there was a growl in her voice, a snarl in her words when she spoke it, it only strengthened the spell she cast on Scarlet’s cravat, the twist and lift she gave it.

Scarlet’s chin came up as the cravat rose and tightened. The fabric twisted. Scarlet’s face grew purple. His breathing grew ragged. His eyes bulged as his gaze locked with Kate’s. What I read there, even as I used his distraction to overwhelm him, was terror.

All his fear was warranted. No foxhound could defend her young more valiantly than did Kate. Kate may not practice many spells, but the spells she can cast are not to be trifled with, and neither is she.

It was not until Scarlet was fully at Kate’s mercy that I had leisure to notice that the children had joined us. Drina was closest, only a few yards from Scarlet. She said nothing. She didn’t have to. Her cold stare expressed all possible contempt.

I roared at the children, “I told you to stay in the nursery Go back at once!”

As they thundered back upstairs, I used great care in binding Scarlet magically, hand and foot. Kate was back in her right shape, but the front door was in flinders, the magical wards on Skeynes in tatters. All that had to wait until I secured our intruder.

Scarlet’s breathing slowed to a rattling wheeze. I felt it necessary to remind Kate that if she strangled him, he couldn’t answer any of our questions. I had to say it twice, the second time right in her ear, before she turned her attention from Scarlet to me. Scarlet fell at our feet, wheezing horribly.

Kate’s eyes were wild, but as she regarded me, her expression softened. She came into my arms, Kate again, safe and sound.

I felt the moment Kate released the spell on Scarlet’s cravat. As she slumped against me, Scarlet gasped and coughed, breathing freely again at last. He seemed to swoon. Between relief and exertion, I felt a little light-headed myself.

For now, Scarlet is locked away safely. He will stay that way. Still, my exertions have depleted my resources sufficiently that I think it is wise to wait until morning to question him. I will write again when I have his full confession.

Yours,

Thomas

(Enchanted by T.S.)

Dear Cecy,

Aunt Charlotte always told us there can never be sufficient excuse for tardy correspondence, but even she could not deny that being transformed into a dog must prevent one from writing letters. If I could have written sooner, I would have, I promise you.

What little I remember of being a dog makes me wish I could have set some of my impressions down on paper. When I try to put them into words now, they fade away into incoherence. There was a sense of order, I do remember that much, something that made it important that Thomas keep me near him. My hearing was extremely acute. In addition, there was a sense of possibility—any detail could have been of vital interest, every object held fascination—a fascination that had everything to do with the way it smelled. I confess, to my own disgust and embarrassment, I miss the smells.

I think it is fortunate I was a dog for only a short period of time. Herr Schellen was a dog for months on end, in circumstances that must approach dog paradise. I do not wonder that he seemed disoriented at first, nor that he seems silent and gloomy now, poor man.

Do not mistake me. I am happy to be myself again. No scent on earth could compensate for such a transformation. Nothing could match my joy when I discovered I had my own shape back again, for when the moment arrived, I was at Mr. Scarlet’s throat. It would have been vexing to be able to do no more than sink in my teeth and worry at it until I ripped his flesh.

No, I promise you, it was with delight that I remembered I had hands. As I clung to him, and as he struggled to throw me off, Mr. Scarlet pulled my hair cruelly. I fancy that was what reminded me of the spell to keep my hair up. My mind was not so clear that I was able to give the matter anything resembling rational thought.

Upon consideration it seems meet and proper that having just enough expertise to qualify as a magician for purposes of suffering canine transformation, I should have enough ability to employ one of the very few spells I know fluently.

Thank goodness Thomas was there to bring me to my senses. I let the spell go before Mr. Scarlet was damaged beyond repair. Thomas took him into custody with his usual enthusiasm. Indeed, the one serious struggle Mr. Scarlet put up after I released him provoked Thomas to such violence that I fear Arthur’s interest in fisticuffs has been renewed.

Since then, I have been restored to my usual state. Despite Georgy’s efforts to play at chatelaine, Belton kept the household running smoothly while I was indisposed, and the nurses had little trouble from the children, as they were feeling guilty about the role they inadvertently played at the Tingle Stone. When I was washed and properly dressed, I returned to the nursery and explained in terms that even you could not have bettered for clarity and firmness that none of this was their fault. Indeed, they have behaved admirably throughout. “The dog is gone?” Diana asked. Arthur and Eleanor confirmed this fact and hardly scoffed at her.

“You were a jolly good dog, Mama,” Edward told me comfortingly.

I thanked him for his thoughtful reassurance.

“Mr. Scarlet is no wizard,” Drina observed. “I have never seen him do magic.”

“Perhaps he isn’t a true wizard,” I countered, “but he has done enough magic to be very dangerous.”

Once Thomas feels his strength entirely restored, we will question Mr. Scarlet. This letter has waited so long to be written that I might as well delay it still further so a full account of the interrogation can be included.

Yet I find that even as I take comfort in the familiar pleasure of writing to you, I take comfort in bringing this to my customary close. I shall write another letter to accompany this one as soon as the inquisition is complete.

For now, I remain your,

Kate

My dear Thomas,

As you perceive from the inscription, I am once again in Leeds. I left a few hours after the Wrextons departed for Skeynes; I trust they will have arrived by the time you receive this. I arrived last night, and spent the morning interviewing Mr. Thornton. You may recall, though I am skeptical of it, that he is the gentleman Mr. Pease of the Stockton and Darlington referred me to for more information regarding Mr. Webb and his improbable railway proposal.

You will be surprised to learn that the trip here has been exceedingly fruitful, though not entirely in the way I had intended. Mr. Thornton was a fount of information and ancient gossip. His family hails from Stockton, and has an interest in the shipping docks, which led inevitably to his involvement with the Stockton and Darlington Railway enterprise.

As a result, he was full of information about Mr. and Miss Webb. I shall not bore you with the endless particulars, but it is evident that they aspire to heights of wealth and society that they have been utterly unable to achieve out of their own birth or merit. They are, he claims, particularly bitter because an ancestor of theirs chose to renounce his title and throw in his lot with Oliver Cromwell instead of romantically siding with the king and getting his own head cut off, or at least sensibly holing up at home to study magic.