PRUNELLA’S FIRST THOUGHT had been to board the stagecoach to London at the Blue Boar, but the difficulties inherent in this scheme soon made themselves obvious. Chief of these was expense: she had taken sufficient funds to supply her wants for a period, but the longer she could preserve that amount untouched, the better.
If only Mrs. Daubeney were going to London! Not that Mrs. Daubeney would take Prunella along, since she was in disgrace. But if only Mrs. Daubeney had a friend who was going there, who might permit Prunella to accompany him; if only she knew anyone travelling in that direction . . .
When Prunella recollected that the Sorcerer Royal was leaving the next day, she felt that the fates had contrived to give her such a chance as she ought not to throw away. No doubt the Sorcerer Royal was travelling in his own chaise, which would save the expense of a stagecoach, besides being a vast deal more comfortable. Had not Henrietta spoken of his good nature? It seemed to Prunella that she possessed such a piteous tale as would persuade anyone who had not a heart of stone to help her.
When she arrived at the inn Prunella had every intention of employing the time till Mr. Wythe’s return in concocting a plan for inveigling him into taking her to London, but she betrayed herself. No sooner had she settled down on the floor of the coffee-room and drawn her invisibility enchantment around herself than she fell asleep, worn out by the misadventures of the day.
She started awake when Mr. Wythe entered the room, but before she could decide what to do, he began to talk. After a moment’s confusion Prunella realised he was not speaking to her. Indeed, he did not seem to be addressing anybody that she could see.
This was pleasingly sorcerous of Mr. Wythe. Prunella refrained from announcing her presence in favour of following his monologue. There is nothing so revealing of a person’s character as the manner in which he conducts himself with his nearest connections. His language, gestures and attitudes, what he does and does not say, all serve to give the completest illustration of who and what he is.
Prunella did not know that it was to this useful species of discourse that she listened. But it was soon evident to her that the Sorcerer Royal was, as she had hoped, precisely the sort of forbearing gentleman upon whom it might just be possible for an unscrupulous young woman to impose.
“I beg your pardon,” said the Sorcerer Royal, when she had declared her intention. “I cannot have heard you aright.”
“It sounds strange, I am sure,” said Prunella, trying to look tragic. She ought to be very good at it, she reflected, with such a model as Mrs. D constantly before her. “It must seem inconceivable that a gently bred female should lower herself to such a shift. But my desperation must be my best defence, for— Oh, sir, you are my only hope!”
She descended into noisy weeping, but not being much of a hand at acting, Prunella was forced to have recourse to a large white handkerchief, appropriated from Mrs. Daubeney’s boudoir, to conceal the absence of tears. Fortunately Mr. Wythe was so befuddled that he did not seem to observe the pretence.
“My dear young lady!” This manner of address would have seemed impertinent in any other gentleman of Mr. Wythe’s youth and handsomeness. But his manner possessed such a splendid unconsciousness of these attributes—he spoke so much like a man who believed himself over the hill, and beyond all flirtations—that Prunella was overtaken by an irresistible fit of the giggles. She hastily contrived to bury them in counterfeit sobs.
“I beg you will be calm,” said Zacharias. “I am sure it is not so bad as it seems, whatever the trouble is. Shall I ask the landlord to summon Mrs. Daubeney?”
“No, call no one else! You are the only creature in the world who can help me, if you would,” declared Prunella behind the shelter of her handkerchief. “I knew when I saw you that you would understand. Some instinct told me that you would not support those who would oppress a female, and deny her her birthright of magic!”
Above the lace edge of the handkerchief, Prunella’s sharp eyes saw Zacharias stiffen.
“I knew that you would understand the secret I have been forced to conceal for these many years,” she continued, infusing her voice with a passionate intensity. “For you must know, sir, that I long to study thaumaturgy! All my life I have dreamt of nothing else. I had scarce means enough to attain my dream, but I learnt what little I could from our ill-stocked library and untrained mistresses. I was happy in picking up scraps and rag-ends of wisdom. But that is all at an end. Even what little opportunity I had of acquiring magical learning is beyond me now—unless you, sir, condescend to help me!”
Mr. Wythe’s defence to his invisible interlocutor of the need to educate magical females had given Prunella some notion of how to craft her petition. It was, after all, only an exaggeration of the truth. Prunella had picked up all her magic from books and indifferently taught lessons. She had learnt even more from the schoolgirls—both in getting up mischiefs with them as a child, and in restraining their inventive wickedness when she grew older—but she was not about to confess that to Mr. Wythe.
The only falsehood lay in the wish she expressed to study thaumaturgy. Prunella had no more interest in magical lore than a fish has in the philosophical properties of water. Magic as a substance, a living force, was the air she breathed and the ground beneath her feet: she would no sooner give it up than she would willingly surrender her sight or speech. Stuffy old thaumaturgy, however—by which Prunella meant magic in books, particularly the deadly tomes to which Mrs. Daubeney’s schoolgirls had access—was another matter altogether.
But the Sorcerer Royal was a scholar, and she had formulated her little speech with that in mind. Even so, she was charmed by its effect. Mr. Wythe was all sympathetic attention, his eyes fixed upon her countenance with a glowing look of interest.
“But this is extraordinary,” he exclaimed. “Fate must have directed you here. I shall certainly try to help you, to the extent that it is within my power.”
This readiness to enter into her feelings surprised Prunella. But she had not accounted for the fact that a passionate yearning to steep oneself in the principles of unnatural philosophy must seem the most natural thing in the world to a young man bred to the office of Sorcerer Royal. Nothing needed less explanation to Zacharias than a professed love of magic and a desire to know more of it.
He was not to be so easily persuaded of the wisdom of abetting an unaccompanied maiden in her own abduction, however. Even as Prunella’s spirits rose, and she began to think this business of running away very easy, he continued:
“It may take some time to convince Mrs. Daubeney of the utility of teaching women thaumaturgy, but you will be patient, I know, Miss Gentleman. My office lends me some authority, and it is to be hoped that that authority will lend weight to my appeal. The change will feel slow to one of your laudable ambition, but it will certainly occur in time. Such a foolish, unjust system as now obtains cannot long survive determined resistance. And in the meantime, there are books!”
“Books?” said Prunella blankly.
“Yes, for even Mrs. Daubeney cannot object to my supplying her library with books,” said Mr. Wythe. “Even if she disliked their contents, it is unlikely she would refuse such a mark of attention from the Sorcerer Royal. You see there is no reason to lose heart, Miss Gentleman! Much benefit may be gained by solitary application. A good tutor makes learning pleasanter and quicker, of course, but many of our best thaumaturges had no teacher but books.”
“I am obliged to you, but books will be no earthly good to me,” said Prunella firmly. “For I cannot stay at the school. That is why I must come with you to London. There is nothing here for me!”
Zacharias had already begun to devise a suitable reading list, but this returned him to earth with a thud that knocked all the titles out of his head.
“But what is the matter?” he said, looking at Prunella with concern. “Have you disagreed with Mrs. Daubeney? Is it possible that I might assist in resolving the conflict?”
Prunella had not expected this solicitude. To her astonishment she felt tears burn her eyes. She blinked furiously, looking away: Prunella might have no compunction in indulging in a show of weeping, but she had far too much pride to give way to real tears in the presence of a stranger.
She thought suddenly, I could tell him about the treasures. Mr. Wythe was kind; he seemed honest; and he would know, if anyone did, what to do about seven familiars’ eggs locked by an enchantment. The mere revelation of her secret must guarantee what she most desired: an escort to London.
But the memory of Mrs. Daubeney’s perfidy stopped her. If Prunella could not trust the one creature in the world she had known from her infancy—the one soul who remembered her father—what reason had she to trust a stranger?
“I have parted from Mrs. Daubeney forever!” said Prunella, and she did not trouble to suppress the tremor in her voice, since it served to reinforce the impression she wished to give. “She thinks me too magical, and has ordered me to give up all enchantery. I may not even devise illusions to amuse the children, or soothe them to sleep with charms! I could not endure such a life. Sir, you are a friend to magic. If you deny me, I do not know where I shall turn.”
Mr. Wythe looked at her with pity. Speaking gently, but with an immovable resolution, he said:
“You are distressed, Miss Gentleman, and not without reason, but if you were to reflect upon your request in a calmer spirit, I am persuaded you should see it would not do. Besides, I am headed not for London but for Fobdown Purlieu on the morrow. I would advise you to return to the school. I can see that with your ability you must find it a sadly restrictive environment, but even such a system as Mrs. Daubeney’s will give you more exposure to the theory of magic than if you were anywhere else.”
“Not more than if I were in London!” said Prunella bitterly.
She had hoped to work upon Zacharias’s sentiments by appearing as a weeping, clinging, trembling creature in need of aid. Mrs. Daubeney was always saying pointedly how little gentlemen liked pushing females, whose tongues were never still, and who had a stomach for anything.
But her lack of success made her reckless. Speaking with real candour, Prunella said:
“I beg you will put yourself in my position, sir. Someone owned you as a son. There were those who had a stake in your success. But if you were me—with no family, no one upon whose charity or affection you could depend—would not it seem to you that there was no place in the world for such a one as yourself?”
Zacharias looked at her in surprise. But he could not fail to understand her meaning. Prunella was not nearly so dark as he—perhaps Sultan Ahmad would not recognise her as anything but a European—but to Zacharias, and more importantly, to any Englishman or -woman, it was evident that she was not—could not be—altogether English.
“Someone owned me, indeed,” he said slowly. It was not an inaccurate assertion, though it was long since he had been emancipated. Sir Stephen had got around to signing the necessary papers when Zacharias turned thirteen—a curious birthday present for a thirteen-year-old boy. “I should like to help you, Miss Gentleman, but consider, would you be any better in London? How would you live? The city is no kinder than the country to those who have no place in the world. Here, at least, you have food and shelter, even if you have fallen out with your mistress.”
Prunella flushed, remembering her last encounter with Mrs. Daubeney. To be obliged to her any longer was intolerable!
“I think I may seek better than to be beholden to the likes of her for food and shelter!” she said. But the Sorcerer Royal was not listening.
He said nothing, but his countenance altered all at once. He put a hand to his forehead, reaching out with the other, as though he sought support. But in fact he was only fumbling for the clock on the mantelpiece.
“Mr. Wythe,” said Prunella, “are you well?”
“So late!” said Zacharias in a harsh voice, so changed that Prunella stared. “Nearly midnight! How could I have permitted you to remain so late?”
He staggered when he returned the clock to the mantelpiece, and had to steady himself by grasping the back of a chair.
Prunella could not make out why the hour should shock him so, but it was no time to puzzle over the Sorcerer Royal’s eccentricity. Mr. Wythe was grey, his countenance fixed and staring.
“I am sure you are unwell,” she said.
“It is nothing,” said the Sorcerer Royal in that strange, distracted manner. “A headache, nothing more. You must certainly go back to the school.”
But Prunella would not be put off. The look on Mr. Wythe’s face as he turned from the mantelpiece had gone to her heart. It was a fleeting look—vanished in a moment, for he composed his features into their usual calm—but the pain and fear could not be mistaken.
“Pray sit down. You look but poorly,” she said. “Mrs. Daubeney used to be a martyr to her headaches, till Cook put an end to them with—well, she said it was a tisane, but I am sure it was a spell!”
Years of chivvying little girls to take their baths and finish their dinners had given Prunella a knack for making the recalcitrant bow to her will. She bundled Zacharias unceremoniously into a chair, and it was this that saved him, for the first jet of flame shooting out from the grate was aimed precisely at where his head had been a moment ago.
Prunella fell back with a shriek.
“Good God!” cried Zacharias.
The fire spilt out of the grate, growing with inconceivable rapidity, devouring the carpet and flaring out towards the ceiling. Choking black smoke filled the room. This was no ordinary fire, for it was haloed with an eldritch green light, and the pungent smell of magic—a smell of hot metal and sulphur, and of herbs burning—filled Prunella’s nostrils.
“Take care!” she gasped, as another jet of flame burst from the fireplace.
Mr. Wythe was still in his chair, ashen-faced. He managed to evade the jet by slumping out of the way, but he seemed incapable of doing any more, though he grasped the arms of the chair and tried to pull himself up. It was clear he was in no state to defend himself, much less Prunella. She must contrive to look after them both.
She grasped his hand and drew the edges of her ragged invisibility spell together. There was no time to think. Working by instinct, she knitted up the rips and tears in her charm and wound it around them both, thinking it furiously into solidity. It must be a wall—a cool wall—a freezing wall—
There were weird inhuman faces in the fire, with tendrils of flame for hair, and mouths open in silent screams of rage. Prunella had not erected her defence a moment too soon. The spirits of the fire surged out of the grate, and threw themselves bodily against her ward.
It held. The fire hissed as it met the ward (cold as ice, cold as November). The spirits roared, their faces melting and re-forming within the wall of flame encircling her and Zacharias. Sometimes the spirits looked like people, but sometimes they looked very unlike, having far too many limbs, and far too many teeth.
Prunella was so cold her teeth chattered in her head, but the bubble enclosing her and Mr. Wythe was lit with a hellish orange light. The devouring fire surrounded them. She could not hold it off for much longer.
A tentacle of flame pierced the barrier as she grew weary, and reached towards Zacharias. If Prunella had been thinking clearly she might well have allowed the flame to obtain its aim. She was not thinking at all, however, and she flung out her hand to stop it.
The flame wrapped around her wrist. She was so cold she did not feel the heat at first, but then she did.
Zacharias heard the girl cry out, and that brought him back to himself, through the haze of pain. He grasped her, though he was weak, dangerously weak. He should never have allowed her to stay, so close to midnight.
“Leofric!” he cried. “Leofric, damn you, remember the bargain!”
He felt the weakness leave him. Power rushed in a cool stream down his arm.
Prunella did not know quite what was happening, but the pain eased suddenly, and the fire receded. Mr. Wythe rose to his feet.
She had the blurry impression of her ward being turned inside out, like an umbrella in a storm. But it was no longer the spell she had knitted frantically together—it was transformed into something larger and far more powerful. It enveloped the blaze, cooling it in a trice, and crushed down the fire, till the room was dark, and there was nothing left of the flames or the spirits.
In Mr. Wythe’s hand pulsed a ball of crimson light. He flung it into the grate. It hit the wall and burst with a hollow roar, many-voiced. Prunella saw the spirits of the fire escape up the chimney, hissing angrily as they went. A remaining nucleus of flame dropped on the logs, where it glowed for a moment before it expired.
Prunella’s last thought was that if Mr. Wythe was not unwell, after all, she wished she had not troubled to exert herself. Her wrist hurt very much. But then she did not feel it any longer. A merciful darkness swallowed her whole.
• • •
THERE was no sign of the fire when Prunella awoke. She was lying on the chaise longue, and the Sorcerer Royal was in an armchair opposite, deep in thought.
Prunella looked around the room, expecting to see the walls blackened and the furniture reduced to tinder, but it was as though the fire had not happened at all. The only evidence that remained was the throbbing pain in her left wrist.
A dreadful thought struck her.
“My valise!” she cried.
“It is safe by your feet,” said Mr. Wythe. He did not seem ill at all. He bent on her a look of concern. “I am glad you are awake. How do you feel?
“How do I feel?” echoed Prunella.
Her immediate sensation had been of relief that Mr. Wythe had not touched her valise while she was unconscious, but now she had occasion to consider herself, she found she was exceedingly cross.
“That is scarcely to the point!” she snapped. “If you were capable all along of fighting off that fire, why did not you? I should have thought you would be ashamed to take your leisure, leaving me to suffer an injury!”
She sat up unsteadily and thrust out her arm, upon which a livid burn had been branded by the flame.
If Prunella had been less upset it might have occurred to her that upbraiding the Sorcerer Royal might not be the best means of persuading him to take her to London. She was quite out of temper, however, and the apparent collapse of her scheme had removed any reason to check her tongue.
Mr. Wythe looked wretchedly guilty.
“I am indeed ashamed,” he said. “I regret extremely that you should have been injured by an attack intended for me. If I had been myself, you should not have suffered the least harm.”
Such a ready acceptance of wrong could not but mollify Prunella. Besides, she was intrigued by the reference to the conflagration’s having been an attack. It had been clear that the fire was of magical provenance, but she had not considered what the purpose of that magic might be.
“Was it meant for you, then?” she said, forgetting her rancour in curiosity. “Are you often so attacked? Why, it is just like the old stories, with sorcerers continually at one another’s throats! I had not thought thaumaturges were still so murderous.”
“Neither had I,” said Zacharias grimly. “The ashes in the grate still bear the impression of the hex. It was designed to injure a magician, without leaving any trace of its presence. That is why the furniture is unharmed. My enemy, whoever he is, hoped to leave me a charred corpse—to be found sitting at my desk, with my possessions undisturbed where I left them.”
“How horrible!” said Prunella with relish.
“The hex was certainly intended for me. No other magician was meant to be staying at this inn,” said Zacharias. “Unfortunately for you, Miss Gentleman, my enemy did not account for your presence. If you had been a chair, you would have escaped harm. Since the fire took you for a magician, you were burnt, for which I am very sorry indeed.”
“As you should be!” said Prunella, but the reproach was perfunctory. It was too interesting to have been present at an attempt on the Sorcerer Royal’s life for Prunella to work up any lasting indignation about her part in the proceedings. “I suppose the spell disabled you, so you should not be able to counter it. That was cleverly done.”
Zacharias looked embarrassed.
“No,” he said. “I was taken ill, as you observed, but that was merely an unlucky circumstance, unconnected to the attack.”
He hesitated, then continued awkwardly:
“I am prey to a recurring complaint whose symptoms are most marked in the evening, and particularly at midnight. It was unfortunate that my attacker struck at precisely that time. I am only glad I was able to summon my strength before it was too late—though not in time to prevent your coming to harm.”
The harm was not much worse than the cuts and scalds Prunella had received in the school kitchens, but she was not about to admit that. She drew herself up and looked haughty.
“I call it a disgrace!” she said. “My wrist hurts very much, and I should think it will need a great deal of time and care to heal. I don’t suppose it will have either, since I must return to Mrs. Daubeney, who doesn’t care whether I live or die!”
This was a wholly speculative play on Prunella’s part, for she had given up on Mr. Wythe’s doing as she desired. It took the wind out of her sails when he replied:
“Of course you cannot go back to that finishing school. Your talent would be thrown away there. I shall take you to London. If I am to reform the magical education of women, why should not the reform begin with you?”
“Oh!” said Prunella. After a moment she rallied, and tried to look as though this were only what she had expected. “Yes! That is what I have been trying to tell you all along.”
Mr. Wythe nodded, but he did not look at her.
“Besides,” he said, “I am in your debt, and will do what I can to make a return. I should likely have died if not for you. You saved my life.”
“Why, so I did,” said Prunella, charmed.