I’m still in a bit of a tizzy when I walk into what I suppose must be Sir Callander’s office. Dr Maige stands with his hands behind his back looking rather satisfied, like a poker player who’s bluffed an opponent with a stronger hand into folding. The room’s chilly and has floor-to-ceiling shelves on two sides, stacked with ancient manuscripts. A banner featuring a black unicorn rearing up against a blue and white background hangs proudly on the wall behind the oaken desk.
Sir Callander moves to a liquor cabinet in the corner and picks up a tumbler. He throws in ice from a handy ice bucket and pours two fingers of whisky from a glass decanter. He offers it to Dr Maige.
The doctor shakes his head disapprovingly and says, ‘Never with ice.’
‘Suit yourself,’ says Callander, taking a gulp. He turns to me. ‘Right, let’s have a look at you. Such a skinny wee waif. You must be freezing in that. Here, an old friend gave it to me many moons ago – probably before you were even born. I shan’t be needing it anymore.’
He reaches over to the coat stand near the door and takes down a black woollen scarf with multi-coloured square blocks and circles running through it. It’s an old thing, with a misaligned pattern and the wool’s moth-eaten. I’m insulted – the thing belongs in a bin – but I take it, ’cause one has to be nice to rich old people. They throw you scraps off the table, so you bow and scrape and say milord and all that crap.
‘Cheers,’ I say, stuffing the old thing in my jacket pocket.
Callander waves his hand dismissively.
‘Before I leave, I feel it’s only proper that I inform you that due to the nature of your association with Miss Moyo, Sir Callander, the Library holds you responsible for her subscription fees, joining fees, and any other costs she might incur during the course of her membership. You will also be involved in matters of discipline and monitoring her general conduct here,’ Dr Maige says matter-of-factly. ‘We will be expecting prompt payment of the first.’
Sir Callander grimaces, and I’m not quite sure if it’s the whisky or this. He narrows his eyes and nods. I feel a huge sense of relief – not like I was ever gonna be able to come up with the money for my subscription, anyway.
‘As for you, Miss Moyo, I’m sure one day your dominie will explain the mechanics of the scattering field in this space, which renders useless any photography. Nothing that happens here leaves the hill either. You will tell no one anything about what, or who, you see here. I assure you, we have remedies for any infractions.’
Dr Maige stoops low and slides out of the door, making sure to shut it behind him. I take my phone out, flick to my photos and am gutted to see my selfie is nothing but a blur of pixels, some kind of Pollockian expanse. That’s so messed up.
I’m now stuck in this awkward silence with Sir Callander. The only sound is his breathing. Maybe he’s still annoyed about having to pay my fees. He sits on the edge of his desk, regarding me as one might a piece of dirt on the floor.
‘I may humour Dr Maige, but if you want to learn magic, girl, my advice is for you to enrol in one of the four schools and learn it properly. Understand?’
‘That’s not why I’m here to see you,’ I say. There’s only so much of this dismissive shit I can take.
‘What do you want, then?’
‘I thought I’d ask you about some weird stuff that’s been going on about town. Thought you could help, since, you know, you’re the man and everything.’
‘Don’t be nonsensical. My time is precious, girl.’
He finishes his whisky and holds onto the glass, swirling the ice so it clinks against the sides. In his presence I feel an awesome turbulence, the sign of an incredible force that can displace anything in its path. If there’s anyone who can help me, it’s gotta be him.
‘There’s kids who’ve been turning up old in the city. Like someone’s taking them and sucking all the juice out.’
Something passes over his face, but he quickly regains his composure. I’m not sure whether I saw surprise or annoyance – or something else entirely. He knits his brow and glares at me.
‘Hogwash,’ he says.
‘I’ve seen it with my own eyes. There’s a kid who looks older than you are, yet he’s barely seven. I can show you, Sir Callander.’
‘Listen to me very, very carefully. All magicians in this country operate within a strict regulatory framework. Such idle talk as this threatens to bring Scottish magic into disrepute and I will not have it. Do you understand?’ I wilt beneath his intense gaze. Then he softens, just a fraction. ‘How did you find the Thomson?’
‘But I really think you should—’
‘Did you read that book I gave you?’ He stops me mid-faff and I know we’re done with my questions. I nod. ‘What did you think of it?’
‘Good, I guess,’ I reply, deflated.
‘And who are you reading now?’
‘Montague and Chandrasekar.’
‘An excellent choice. They are brilliant communicators and you will find that, alongside Thomson, they offer an elementary instruction. See the ice in this glass I’m holding?’ He stretches out his hand so it’s right in front of me. ‘The ice is going to melt eventually. The room is warmer, therefore a thermodynamic equilibrium must be reached. After that, the laws governing the enthalpy of vaporization will ensure that, given enough time, it will all turn to gas. The most straightforward spells are the ones that follow those laws. In this case, the practitioner could merely accelerate the process by which the water warms up. This would make its molecules vibrate faster while the room imperceptibly cools, losing energy in response. It’s a seesaw: if one goes up, the other comes down, until their temperatures match.’
He runs a finger down the glass to remove some of the condensation formed on it, and in front of my eyes the waterline begins to rise, just as the ice melts. It’s like a time-lapse video happening right before me. The water from the ice cubes fills a little more than a third of the glass and Callander sloshes it around. Then, incredibly, it begins to boil, steam curling into the air. I’m still taking it in when he stands up, comes forward and ushers me to the door, opening it to show me out.
Once I’m in the hall, he bends to look at me. I feel the air around me grow warmer, as if the sun itself was shining in the middle of July.
‘It’s easier to create chaos than to install order. Any halfwit – and the great majority of magicians you will encounter here are that or worse – can do third-rate magic. The real science begins when you can turn the arrow round to face the other way. Here, thanks to Maxwell’s demon, the scientist can turn the water back into ice. But you are a long way from that just now. Focus on the basics first and the rest will follow.’
I don’t understand any of what he’s just said, but the heat in the air dissipates, as the water in the whisky glass refreezes into a single, solid chunk of ice. Without warning, Callander throws the glass my way. It hits the floor, shattering ice and all into a hundred pieces.
‘Clean that up, will you, girl,’ he says, slamming the door shut.
What a certifiable bawbag. I’m proper radge at the moment, standing here with all these broken shards at my feet. I’ll have to think of some other way of finding Ollie on my own. No one else in this town gives a toss.