The Mislaid Magician (3 page)

There has been no sign of our prowler about the house or the nearby grounds, but yesterday I took Arthur out riding to work off some of his energy, and we found quite a mess out by the gazebo on the far side of the hill, near the ancient earthworks. It looked almost as if some amateur had been attempting to cast a spell, or perhaps cook a peculiar sort of dinner—there were chicken feathers and onion skins all over, a couple of broken sticks with charred ends, and random lines drawn in chalk here and there. I would have suspected the children had they not been laid up all week.

Arthur’s surprise was evident … as was his desire to investigate everything at once. I made quite certain that there was no magical residue and then let him collect feathers. He found a shiny silver button in one corner, quite flat and polished to a mirror finish. If it belonged to the would-be magician, then he is no vagrant. I plan to test it tonight, after Arthur is safely in bed.

I do wish James would come home. I have no particular concern about the prowler himself, of course, but I am growing more concerned about Arthur’s fascination with the notion of discovering him. I spent considerable time and effort, very early this morning, placing yet another ward around the house—to detect anyone attempting to sneak
out
late at night. I could almost wish that Arthur would catch the cold like the rest of them, but he remains disgustingly healthy.

Yours,

Cecy

Dear James,

In London, are you? Bored rigid yet?

Sincere apologies for my tardiness in replying to your letter. Rest assured that your young hellion has not damaged anything. I think I can promise that he won’t be able to duplicate the feat.

The fact that Arthur contrived to do it even once interests me. I look forward to my next interview with him, as I have it on excellent authority (my member of the league of holy matrimony had it from your member of the league) that the lad claims to have seen things in my big paperweight. A truly reliable gazing ball would come in very useful, so if he has found a way to create one, I owe Arthur a debt of gratitude. I can promise you that if I had a truly reliable gazing ball, I would never again return to my home weary from the hardships of the road to find my sister-at-law still visiting. Certainly not when the visitor seems to labor under the impression that she is hiding from a mysterious organization that plots her demise. (Not that I don’t occasionally sympathize with the urge to plot her demise.)

No, if I had a truly reliable gazing ball, you would find me putting up at a quiet and comfortable inn, playing shove ha’penny, sampling the ale, and doing no harm to anyone. Instead, I return to find domestic chaos, and Kate, Edward, and the infant afflicted with streaming colds, whilst I, sadly neglected, am left to my own devices.

I may come to London myself. There are some fates worse than boredom. Put in a word for me with Old Hookey if you think I can be of the slightest use.

Kate sends her love to you, to Cecy, and to the rest of your merry band,

Sincerely,

Thomas

My dear Thomas,

No, I won’t invite you up to London. Find your own excuse to avoid your domestic disasters. Not that I blame you for wanting to avoid Her Grace, the Duchess of Waltham—or have you suddenly acquired some other sister-at-law whom you wish to avoid?

In any case, as you observe, I am no longer in London, nor do I anticipate returning soon. Our new prime minister found some letters that had been sitting unopened in the “Secret” packet since October, if you please! Some Prussian railway surveyor has gone missing in the north. It ought to have been looked into at once, but Lord Wellington has had his hands full with the royal family since he became PM last month. King George has never seen eye to eye with his brothers on political matters, and he and the Duke of Cumberland have had another row over the succession. Something about the Duchess of Kent and her daughter, I believe. It was all Old Hookey could do to keep it out of the papers.

But that business has blown over, for the time being at least, and now Cecelia and I are off to Leeds to see what we can find out. It will take us a few days to pack and make arrangements, but Wellington wished to keep additional delay to a minimum. I will send you our direction as soon as I know it.

Meanwhile, if you can forward me any information on the theoretical interactions between magic and railway lines or steam engines, I’d appreciate it.

Yours,

James

Dearest Kate,

James is back, and I am utterly distracted. Our esteemed prime minister, His Grace, the Duke of Wellington, may be the greatest general in the history of England, but I doubt he has ever had to deal with uprooting a household of children on a moment’s notice. I expect I will have a few things to say on the subject when next I see him.

For that is what I must do. His Grace wishes James and me to travel north to Leeds—I will explain it all another time, or perhaps James will write to Thomas and you can learn of it from that. I cannot take the children, for though they are much recovered they are not yet in their usual robust health (always excepting Arthur), and such a long trip would risk a relapse, or perhaps some more-serious infection. And I cannot simply leave them here with Nurse, not with mysterious prowlers and peculiarly nonmagical messes in the gazebo and so on (and
especially
not without someone to keep Arthur from charging off to discover whatever he can, regardless of possible peril).

Dearest Kate—I know that you are already dealing with Georgy, and that Thomas will dislike it excessively, but
could
I prevail on you to take in my four rapscallions (and Nurse, of course) for a few weeks? If you cannot manage, I shall have to write to Aunt Elizabeth, which will take some time, and James is eager to be gone. Please let me know as soon as you can.

Your distracted and importunate,

Cecy

Dearest Cecy,

Of course the children must come at once.

Thomas will meet you at the Bull and Mouth in Aldersgate Street. Such is his delight at finding a legitimate reason to leave for London, he intends to set off as soon as possible. With any luck, by the time you read this letter, he will be waiting there to collect the children from you and drinking beer and playing shove ha’penny, no doubt.

I will keep my consternation to myself for the moment, as you have quite enough to deal with for now. But do be careful!

Georgy may well benefit by this circumstance, for she adores the children, and their presence may help to turn her thoughts from whatever troubles her. She still won’t confide in me.

Just between us, Cecy, I doubt Georgy spares a thought for what the Ton says of her. She is afraid of something—if only I knew what—and that fear trumps all rational concerns. I’m sure you are right that putting it about that she has gone to Paris is much the best course of action. I only wish I could persuade her to
talk
to me. I can bear the curiosity, but I hate worrying about her. Edward and Laurence seem to take up all my customary fretting.

Even more between the two of us, Cecy, I simply cannot contain myself a moment longer. In his haste to leave Skeynes for London, thus neatly avoiding Georgy and all her sighs, Thomas has convinced himself that he is being clever. He (he and Ripley, the coachman, to be exact) will drive to London and back, enjoying himself thoroughly the while. In his view, the mere matter of transporting a number of small children and their nurse adds nothing to the complexity of this endeavor. To you and you alone, Cecy, I must say ha! Ha! And again ha!

There. I feel much better now. When Thomas returns with your children safe and sound, I will be the soul of sympathy as I listen to his heartrending account of the experience. Indeed, I am sure he will deserve my sympathy by then, and I am just as certain that his account will be as entertaining as it is plaintive. But while Thomas is preparing so happily for his latest escape from domestic bliss, I simply had to express my true feelings, and I can trust only you.

You know you can trust us with the children. They will be perfectly safe here, come what may. I know you will do what you must to aid His Grace, but rest assured you may do it with a clear mind where the children are concerned.

Love,

Kate

P.S.
Do not, on any account, permit Thomas so much as a glance at this letter. I am already suffused with guilt at having found amusement in the trials he is about to endure. —
K.

Dear James,

Make up your mind. Railway lines or steam engines? The current state of opinion on theoretical interactions varies considerably with whom you ask. As usual.

Given sufficient time, I’ll warrant I can find you any argument you please: Steam engines are the work of the devil, a providential opportunity to improve the condition of all mankind, or an explosive death trap waiting to be sprung. Railway lines contain too much iron to be of reliable use in a magical interaction. Conversely, they invite magical interactions by nature of the similarity of their engineering to the engineering of Roman roads. There is also a school of thought that finds they constitute a hopeless blot on the landscape. Take your pick.

If you care to hear my theory, although God knows you have seldom paid the slightest attention before, I think the steam engine is certain to lend itself to some exceedingly useful interactions. Nothing so thoroughly comprised of the elements of earth, water, air, and fire could fail to do so.

I am of two minds on the question of railway lines. On the face of it, the lines show great promise as a way to link two (or even more!) points with a durable physical connection. Are you by any chance familiar with the work of Hans Christian Oersted? I haven’t yet met him, but I have obtained a recent essay of his on magnetism. He has succeeded in producing magnetism at will. The procedure requires a central element, say a rod of iron, wrapped about with wire. Most intriguing stuff. I’ll bring the essay with me. One never knows. There may be the (purely theoretical!) possibility of a similar application on a grand scale. Rods of iron aplenty involved in a railway line.

Yet, because railway tracks are made of many bits of metal placed end to end, considered as a staging point for a spell, it would be like running the Derby in installments. The enterprise might eventually work, but one would need a dashed good reason to take the trouble.

I plan to be in town before you, to have a look through the library at the Society and to gather any other references that might be of use to us. It won’t hurt young Marrable to run up and down those ladders a few dozen times on our behalf. Trust my discretion. I won’t tell him what I want to know or why I want to know it. No, honestly. After all, I don’t know myself.

The Bull and Mouth is far from elegant, but I suspect your children will love the bustle of the place. For once they will behold chaos they did not create themselves. I’ll meet you there.

Sincerely,

Thomas

Dearest Kate,

We have arrived in London and are ensconced at Thomas’s inn. I am not sure what he was thinking to have chosen it. It may do very well for a lone gentleman of a certain style, but it is really not the place for a family with young children. Particularly not when the children in question are my older three (Baby Alexander is thankfully not yet mobile enough to go out in search of adventures).

There were no additional anomalies about the grounds at Tangleford once James arrived home (much to my relief and Arthur’s frustration). James and I rode the boundaries together the day before our departure, he looking for suspicious physical evidence, I searching for more arcane manifestations. We found nothing, so I hope that our nocturnal visitor either was driven off by all the activity attendant on our preparations for departure or simply departed on his own.

London is, as usual, a hotbed of gossip. Lord Kernsbury has gambled away the last of his fortune and has been forced to fly the country to escape his debtors. Lady Prothmire’s daughter has broken her engagement to old Lord Heppelwith, and her mother has hauled her back to the country in disgrace. And the Duchess of Kent snubbed the Duke of Cumberland most pointedly in the park last week. Rumor has it that they are on the outs over her daughter Alexandrina, who some (including, of course, the duchess) think should stand next in line for the throne after her uncle William. The duke naturally thinks that as one of the old king’s sons,
he
should be king after his two elder brothers, while the duchess contends that since her late husband was older than the Duke of Cumberland, her daughter is the rightful heir.

The royal dispute is supposed to be private, but everyone knows of it. Even Aunt Charlotte has heard, though she has not visited London in weeks. I had a letter from her deploring the duchess’s actions and accusing her of pushing her daughter’s interests more than is seemly (which makes me think the Duchess of Kent must be quite an agreeable person after all). That is all the news I have been able to garner, but of course the Season has not yet properly begun.

James has gone to call on the Duke of Wellington, to see if he has anything more to add before we depart for the north, and Thomas is off at the Royal College. I am taking the opportunity to write you while I can, and to thank you and Thomas from the bottom of my heart for taking in my family. I would express a pious wish that they will be well-behaved for you, but I know it for a forlorn hope, at best.

I fully enter into your sentiments regarding Thomas’s probable response to two days’ travel with the four topmost shoots on the Tarleton family tree. Indeed, I could hardly help but do so, having just spent a day and a half getting them to London. (Diana was severely carriage-sick, which necessitated an unscheduled stop on the way; normally it is only a one-day ride, even with the children in tow.)