MUNA STOOD IN a high-ceilinged hall. Brilliant sunlight spilt through the windows stretching from dark stone floors to a vaulted ceiling. A table of gigantic proportions ran along the entire length of the hall.
She was no longer in Britain. The air betrayed this—it was a dry hot air; nothing less like the damp chill of Britain could be imagined. The light, too, was not the watery grey light of London but a harsh brassy glare, possessing all the intensity of the noonday sun in Janda Baik.
The windows looked out on a vast expanse of blue sky, unmarred by a single wisp of cloud. Below lay golden desert, stretching away as far as the eye could see. Mountains reared up in the distance, but Muna did not study these, for the herd of beasts thundering past distracted her.
She took these for deer, but as she approached the window this illusion fell away. While she could see that some species of deer might have blue fur and beards and even furry paws in place of hooves, she doubted whether any could boast tails of blue flame.
A vast black shadow fell over the herd. The beasts put on a burst of speed, vanishing into the distance.
Muna raised her head and saw the naga.
She had never seen a dragon before, but she knew it for what it was at once. It was flying quite low and so she could see that it was not large, so far as naga went. The creature was no larger than an elephant—it was the massive wings that cast the greatest part of the shadow.
As she watched, openmouthed, the naga turned its great golden head. Muna looked directly into an enormous blue eye—and it looked back at her.
The naga swerved and dived towards her.
Muna whipped around and ran helter-skelter along the hall, too frightened even to spare the breath to scream. It took a hideous age for her to cross the expanse of floor dividing her from the door. At any moment the naga would shatter the glass and rush into the room. She could almost feel the beast’s hot breath stirring her hair, its talons gouging her flesh . . .
She could not help glancing back when she reached the door. The naga had landed outside the window. It lowered its head to peer through, puzzling over how it might enter. Muna slammed the door shut behind her.
She had expected to return to the gallery of ill-bred portraits, but she stumbled out into a different corridor. Before panic could overtake her, recognition came—she knew that painting of cows by the river. She was in the Academy, back in Britain. Sure enough, when she pushed open the door by the painting of cows, she found herself in her own bedchamber.
Her heart was still racing. She collapsed into a chair, panting.
The Sorceress Royal ought to put up a sign on that door, Muna thought in indignation. Why, anyone might enter and be devoured!
But then she went still, for a disquieting thought possessed her.
They had lied to her—the Sorceress Royal, Henrietta and the polong. Leonine deer with flaming tails and blue-eyed dragons were not to be found in deserts in the mortal world. Muna had just been in the Unseen Realm.
She sprang to her feet and rushed back to the gallery. It was still there, and the portraits recognised her at once.
“There is that gel again!” one began.
But Muna’s wariness of the paintings had evaporated in the shock of seeing the naga. Painted demons hardly seemed to compare.
“Oh, hush!” she snapped. “I shall go away again directly. I have no more desire for your society than you have for mine!”
Her tone startled the paintings sufficiently that they subsided into discontented mutterings. Ignoring them, Muna went down to the end of the gallery, but it was as she had half-suspected. The green door she had seen before had vanished.
It had been the same in Mak Genggang’s house. Doorways shifted about; new verandas occasionally sprouted without warning; and once an entire annexe had blossomed behind the main house to accommodate a family from the village whose own house had burnt down. It had gone away again once their house was rebuilt.
It was in the nature of magicians’ houses that they were in a state of constant metamorphosis. But Muna knew what she had seen.
WHEN Muna returned to her bedroom she took out the polong’s bottle from under the bed where she had concealed it. She could not interrogate the English; she was sure she had seen what was not meant for her. But perhaps the spirit would be able to tell her where the green door had gone.
Though she repeated the summons twice, however, the polong did not appear.
“I know I was uncivil last night,” said Muna, “but I beg you will forgive me, kak. Think how you would feel if you knew your sister was in the clutches of evil spirits and you were helpless to prevent it!”
Muna’s plea was met with silence—a silence that had a distinctly stubborn quality.
“Oh, very well!” said Muna. Bitter words crowded her throat, but she swallowed them. It was not impossible that she might still prevail upon the polong to help her, once the spirit had recovered from her sulks.
Muna was troubled as she restored the bottle to its hiding place. It was all very well for the polong to counsel her to maintain the pretence of being a witch. How was she to continue to impose upon the English without the spirit’s aid? And what would become of her if she was found out as a fraud?
She could not quite believe that she would be thrown out on the street. The Sorceress Royal might be ruthless enough to use her so, but surely Henrietta would intervene on her behalf—Muna could not imagine the blond Englishwoman, with her gentle eyes, doing anything so unkind. They might send her back to Janda Baik. That would not be so bad, for then she could ask Mak Genggang for help. But if she was obliged to travel there without the aid of magic, it would be a year before she saw the witch.
Who knew what a year would mean to Sakti? It was said that in the Unseen Realm time did not pass as it did in the mortal world, but still, Muna could not afford to leave her sister in the Palace of the Unseen—perhaps in the power of the very enchanter who had cursed them—for so long.
The thought of the curseworker reminded her of the painting she had seen of George Midsomer. Was he the Midsomer to whom the spell had referred? But why should an English magician trapped in a painting have cursed two girls from an island thousands of miles away? How could he have spirited Sakti away to the Palace of the Unseen, if he had not even the power to liberate himself from a picture frame? Besides, surely if he were their enemy he would have known Muna, and he had shown no sign of recognising her.
She had not enjoyed her exchange with Mr. Midsomer and if she were governed by her inclinations alone she would not soon have returned to the gallery. But duty must override inclination, and it was clearly her duty to question him and discover what she could. Muna rose from where she knelt by the bed, dusting herself off.
She was resolved to go back to the gallery directly, but when she opened the door she found the maidservant Sarah stood outside with her hand raised to knock.
“Oh, you startled me, miss!” gasped Sarah. “I beg your pardon, but dinner will be served in half an hour, and I came to see if I might help you dress. We shall have three of the scholars with us—Miss Edwards, Miss Campbell and Alice—Miss Pinder, that is. They have just arrived, and right pleased to see you, they will be.”
“Thank you,” said Muna, after a pause. “I can dress myself, though it is kind of you to offer, and I shall be delighted to meet the scholars.”
There was no reason she should feel guilty, she told herself, for it would not help Sakti for Muna to fast. Besides, she owed it to her English hosts to make a decent show of gratitude and attend the meals they laid on for her. She would go back to the gallery later. And if she felt relieved that she need not confront George Midsomer just then, no one who had seen his manners would blame her.
The Academy’s scholars were waiting for her at dinner. They proved a motley crew—Miss Edwards was six-and-twenty, a governess who had given her notice when she heard of Mrs. Wythe’s Academy, whereas Miss Alice Pinder was not more than eight years old. It seemed her attendance at the Academy had caused considerable controversy, because her mother was a cook.
“But what is offensive about that?” said Muna, surprised. “To be a cook is a respectable profession.”
“Oh, you cannot conceive the number of things that will offend an English thaumaturge,” said Miss Campbell. “He is the touchiest creature alive!” Miss Campbell, a lively maiden of fourteen, was from Scotland and had little reverence to spare for the English.
“They ought not all to be tarred with the same brush, however,” said Miss Edwards in defence of her countrymen. “Mr. Damerell is a Fellow of the Society, and he is a great friend to the Academy. Mr. Damerell is abroad,” she explained to Muna, “visiting Threlfall, for his familiar is a dragon belonging to that clan. But he often teaches us when he is in England.”
Muna had never heard of Threlfall, but the scholars were only too delighted to enlighten her about that ancient clan of dragons, who governed their own demesne in Fairyland and were feared even by the Fairy Queen herself. They told her of Mr. Damerell’s friend and familiar Robert of Threlfall, who was occasionally to be seen in the Academy—a pleasant-spoken, gentlemanly creature, not in the least proud though he was so highborn.
“What is Threlfall like?” asked Muna, thinking of the sun-baked land she had glimpsed earlier that day, in the room where she had sought refuge from the talking paintings. Might the dragon she had seen have anything to do with these friends of the Sorceress Royal? “Is it a dry country, do you know?”
Miss Campbell shook her head. “Mr. Threlfall never speaks of his home. If you did not know, you might think he was a mortal born and bred. You never met anyone so English!”
But she and the others told Muna everything else they knew—about the Royal Society of Unnatural Philosophers that frowned upon them; the dashing Sorceress Royal who trailed scandal and excitement in her wake; and their instructors at the Academy (they referred fondly to Miss Stapleton as Henny, but it was for Mr. Wythe that they reserved their most ardent sentiments—they all seemed more than half in love with him).
Muna had feared that dinner would be a wearisome affair, but she was diverted by the girls’ conversation, and touched by their pains to welcome a stranger. Their gossip was more than amusing; it proved instructive. For it was Miss Campbell who said, with an air of importance:
“And they say we are to have a new instructress this year.”
“Who says so? Who is it?” cried Miss Edwards and Miss Pinder.
“The footman told me,” said Miss Campbell. “He saw her at the Sorceress Royal’s quarters.”
“A magicienne?” said Miss Edwards. “I had not thought there were any others qualified to teach.”
“Yes, and you will never guess who it is,” said Miss Campbell. “It is the least likely person in the world—Miss Clarissa Midsomer!”
If she had hoped to create a sensation, she was amply rewarded by her audience. Alice, to be sure, said, “Who is that?” but Miss Edwards echoed, “Clarissa Midsomer?” in tones of incredulity, and Muna choked on her mouthful of whiting.
Fortunately the girls had no reason to believe the name “Midsomer” meant anything to Muna. They supposed she had swallowed a bone. When, anxious not to interrupt the conversation, she had reassured them, they returned to the subject of Clarissa Midsomer, questioning Miss Campbell eagerly.
“But I thought the Midsomers abhorred the Sorceress Royal,” said Miss Edwards. “Was not it Miss Midsomer’s father who applied to the Presiding Committee to strip Mrs. Wythe of her office?”
Miss Campbell nodded, her eyes bright. “And Mrs. Midsomer blames Mrs. Wythe for exiling her son Geoffrey to Fairyland. Such nonsense, when everyone knows Geoffrey Midsomer went to Fairy because of his wife! But Miss Midsomer was at school with Mrs. Wythe and Miss Stapleton. It seems she is not entirely of one mind with her mother and father.”
She exchanged a knowing look with Miss Edwards, and even little Alice looked sage. It seemed it was not at all uncommon for female magicians to disagree with their relations.
“It will be good to have another instructress,” Miss Edwards concluded. “Though I wonder how Miss Midsomer could have learnt enough magic to be able to teach! Mrs. Wythe and Miss Stapleton have always said they learnt nothing at their school but how to suppress their magic. It was Mr. Wythe who taught them thaumaturgy.”
“The Midsomers are one of our oldest magical families,” replied Miss Campbell. “There are ways and means for a determined female.”
Everyone at the table knew she belonged to this class, and they shared a smile in recognition of this—save Muna. For the remainder of the meal she said very little. But she was excused, for the girls had been forewarned of the dreadful tragedy that had befallen their guest, and sudden fits of melancholy were only to be expected in one who had suffered the loss of a sister.
MUNA was in a ferment for the rest of the evening. It could not be mere coincidence that, by her second day at the Academy, she should have encountered one Midsomer and heard of another, both magicians. She had been led here by an intelligence greater than her own. For the first time since she had lost Sakti, Muna said her prayers in a spirit of true submissive gratitude.
But which Midsomer was the curseworker? She puzzled over the mystery for half the night, tossing and turning in her bed.
Surely she could discount George Midsomer. He was only a painting. If he had any real power, he would be casting hexes at the Sorceress Royal, not only aspersions.
But Clarissa Midsomer sounded a mere novice magicienne. Muna could not see how she could have wrought a curse capable of confounding such a powerful witch as Mak Genggang—nor what motive either could have had for afflicting two village girls from a distant island.
Muna rose the next morning more determined than ever to seek out George Midsomer and interrogate him—but it proved difficult to gain the necessary solitude now that the scholars had arrived. Miss Edwards, Miss Campbell and Miss Pinder were anxious that their guest should not be left alone to stew in her low spirits. They threatened to attach themselves to her, and it was only by claiming a sudden indisposition, requiring a return to bed, that Muna contrived to extricate herself from their hospitality.
She stole to her bedchamber, feeling guilty. God would forgive her for telling so many lies, she hoped, since she did it all for Sakti. She waited till the hands of the clock on the mantelpiece had described several rotations before creeping to the door and looking out cautiously.
There was a bustle in the house there had not been before—the scholars’ return had brought the Academy to life—but there was no one around to see Muna leave her room. Nor did she encounter anyone on her way. But when she rounded the corner into the gallery with its rows of painted thaumaturges, she came upon a scene that threw her plan into disarray.
“Ah, Miss Muna!” cried Henrietta. “We were just speaking of you. Clarissa, this is the guest I told you of, from the island of Janda Baik. The arch-witch of that country, Mak Genggang, has done us the honour of entrusting her apprentice to our care. Miss Muna, may I present to you Miss Clarissa Midsomer? She has agreed to join the Academy as an instructress.”
Miss Midsomer dropped a brief curtsey. After a moment Muna managed to collect herself sufficiently to respond in kind.
She was too taken aback to know what to say or how to look, but Miss Midsomer did not speak either. The Englishwoman gazed at Muna with her lip curled, in a way that would have been accounted unmannerly in Janda Baik.
Perhaps she is the curseworker after all, thought Muna, though Clarissa Midsomer looked scarcely old enough to be so powerful or so wicked. She was as youthful as Henrietta, though less pretty, having a great deal of sandy hair and a skin so pale she might have been a ghost. Her eyes were of an indeterminate light shade, watery and reddish; the effect they gave was not in the least occult.
Nonetheless there was something eerie about Miss Midsomer, ordinary as she looked. For the familial resemblance was remarkable. Muna’s eyes darted towards the portrait of George Midsomer, looking disdainfully down on the three of them.
“Are you a relation of this gentleman, Miss Midsomer?” she said. “You look so much like him!”
It only struck her after the words were out that this might not be taken as a compliment, for she would not like to be told that she resembled a man so pale and sour-faced. But either George Midsomer was deemed handsome by English standards, or clan pride supplied all that was wanting in his features, for Miss Midsomer’s hauteur dissolved. She flushed with pleasure.
“Yes,” she said, “he is an ancestor of mine. One of the two Sorcerers Royal who bore the name Midsomer!”
She gestured at the painting. For the first time Muna noticed the staff in George Midsomer’s left hand. It was made of a gnarled and ancient-looking wood, and it looked familiar.
“Why,” Muna exclaimed, “that is Mrs. Wythe’s staff!”
At the mention of the Sorceress Royal, Miss Midsomer froze up again. “It is the chief emblem of the Sorcerer Royal’s office,” she said stiffly, “and was held by many Englishmen before Prunella Wythe. It is not rightly her staff—it belongs just as much to her predecessors.”
“As it will belong to those that succeed her,” said Henrietta. “But Prunella is the Sorceress Royal at present, you know, so Miss Muna is quite correct to call the staff hers. Now I come to think of it,” she added, “yours is not the only family that can claim the honour of producing more than one Sorcerer Royal. There have been three Sorcerers Royal named Wythe!”
She spoke in a perfectly pleasant tone, as though she was agreeing with Miss Midsomer, but Miss Midsomer bridled.
“I wonder I did not notice the staff in the painting before,” said Muna. She paused, but there was no reason to hide the fact that she had been here already, and she wished to know why George Midsomer was so altered. Neither he nor any of the other thaumaturges had shown the least flicker of life. “Mr. Midsomer did not say he was Sorcerer Royal. No doubt that accounts for his lordly manners.”
“What do you mean, he did not say he was Sorcerer Royal?” said Miss Midsomer sharply. “Did Mr. Midsomer speak to you?”
“Yes,” said Muna. “I was never so astonished in my life! Do all your paintings speak, Miss Stapleton?”
Henrietta shook her head. “Oh dear, I ought to have warned you! These are the only paintings in the Academy that speak. They used to hang in the Society, but they made such a nuisance of themselves that—that is to say, the Sorceress Royal felt they would do better here. This part of the building is not much used.” Henrietta gave Muna a worried look. “I hope the gentlemen did not say anything untoward? I am afraid they are sometimes wont to forget their manners.”
“You might recall, Henrietta Stapleton, that my forefather is among them!” said Miss Midsomer.
“I am not likely to forget,” Henrietta reassured her. “He is the worst for abusing the servants and threatening the scholars with being turned into frogs! But I do not mean any reflection upon your ancestor. Mr. Wythe says the paintings have little of their subjects in them—the life that animates them springs from the artist, and the artist’s opinions of his subject cannot be taken as a wholly reliable guide to who they were. I am sure the real George Midsomer was much pleasanter than his likeness.”
She did not sound convinced, however, and Miss Midsomer was not propitiated. She directed a glare at Muna, as though she resented the honour Muna had received in being insulted by Miss Midsomer’s ancestor.
“I am afraid Miss Midsomer and I must discuss her duties,” said Henrietta to Muna. “We shall see you again this evening at the Sorceress Royal’s ball, but for now we must take our leave of you. May I escort you to the library, Miss Muna? You have discovered already that there are a great many surprises in this building—not all of them pleasant!”
Muna thought of the grand hall into which she had stumbled the day before, with its foreign sunshine and magical beasts outside the window. The green door was still conspicuous by its absence; in its place was a featureless expanse of gold damask wallpaper.
“Yes,” she said. But she declined Henrietta’s offer of assistance. She was very much obliged, she said, but she knew where the library was to be found, and did not fear any misadventure befalling her while she covered that short distance.
She parted from the Englishwomen, answering Miss Midsomer’s ungracious “Good day” with more courtesy than it merited. It was clear that Miss Midsomer shared some of her ancestor’s views on natives, but she had shown no sign of recognising Muna, any more than George Midsomer. That suggested either that Miss Midsomer was an excellent actress—or that she could not be Muna’s enemy.
Perhaps it was another Midsomer altogether. Miss Midsomer had a father, a mother, a brother . . . they might all be magicians, and any of them might be the curseworker.
Yet why should any of Miss Midsomer’s kin wish to curse Muna and her sister? What crime could they have committed against any English magician?
It seemed an impossible tangle. Still, to have met two Midsomers was progress she had scarcely hoped for before. Muna would watch Clarissa Midsomer, and pursue every clue that presented itself, till the curse was broken and Sakti restored to her.
Mak Genggang might not have taught Muna magic, but the witch’s conviction that the world had meaning, and that time was a pattern that God understood, was one Muna shared. All that had happened in the past two days was a reminder that nothing was impossible, even to one as powerless as Muna. She had not felt so hopeful since she had arrived in England.