The foul pool of liquid smoked. It smelled utterly repulsive, even Quenelda had to admit, and what the frog thought about it no one would ever know now. The tip of a hat appeared from behind the burned desk, followed by two outraged eyes and a mouth already opening wide in rebuke. The eyebrows were gone, and the smoking beard had seen better days.
‘Madam!’
Quenelda lowered her wand and prepared for yet another telling off. She had no idea what had gone wrong. She sighed. Keeping her promise to her father to study hard for her first wand had seemed easy at the time, when only thoughts of flying Two Gulps had filled her mind. But now she was stuck in the library for endless tedious hours with Professor Stodgepoddle, practising the casting of spells. Elementary spells, as he kept reminding her; spells that should have been learned in the nursery. Well, Quenelda thought sourly, at least she was good at some of her studies. Professor Spiraldykes was positively rapturous about her rune casting. He had been rendered almost speechless when she had combined runes to create an Elder rune so complex and powerful and old that none now knew its meaning.
In a state of high excitement that brought colour to his shrivelled old cheeks, he had rushed off to the Circular Library, returning at midnight with a fusty old book. Three days later he found what he was looking for: the same Elder rune carved on the portal of the long gone Ice Citadel, copied in a fading manuscript. His fellow scholars patted him condescendingly on the back. The old fellow’s wits were addled, they said, nodding. Everyone knew that the Earl’s daughter was hopeless at magic.
Where the rune had come from, Quenelda admitted in quiet moments, was baffling. She hadn’t been studying diligently, or been shown the rune by her father on Dragon Isle – as Spiraldykes thought. When the professor had opened the book, it was as if she’d seen them all before, instinctively recognizing the complex glyphs that represented earth, fire, wind, water – and a few more that had long since fallen into disuse: stone, ice, wood, dark and light.
‘Madam!’ Stodgepoddle pursed his lips. The dratted child was daydreaming again. ‘Casting spells is a complex skill. As with any skill, some are naturally gifted; others’ – he looked at her meaningfully – ‘have to be tutored, have to apply themselves – practise …’
Quenelda closed her eyes and sighed as the torrent of words washed over her. It wasn’t as if she did it on purpose! The difference between grips … The complexities of casting … It was all so boring … After all, magic was everywhere – you just had to dip into it. Wands were a prop for those who weren’t very good at magic, like Stodgepoddle. Quenelda stopped abruptly. What was she thinking? Where had these strange ideas come from? She frowned.
‘Ahem …’
It was evident that the tirade had finished, because now the old man was looking at her over the rim of his spectacles, his lips pursed, his eyebrows – or what was left of them – raised in expectation. He’d asked her a question.
‘Erm …’ Quenelda ventured hopefully. That at least should cover most options, and at least it would look as if she was considering an answer.
‘Madam, madam.’ Stodgepoddle shook his head in sorrow. ‘I fear that we must once again go back to elementary spell-casting. Your grip and technique are all wrong. You are not clubbing someone over the head.’ He held out his hand palm upwards. ‘Your wand.’
Stodgepoddle balanced the girl’s wand in his hand. It was plain elm wood, warped by age and unadorned, not at all like that of Lady Armelia, one of the other young ladies at Court whom he tutored. Her dress wand was priceless unicorn ivory inset with gold runes, a powerful wand for one so young. Now there was a proper young lady, he sniffed. Elegant, dazzling, enough to set the old heart racing, just as a young lady should. Perhaps it was just as well that this one was plain wood. Heaven knows what damage this wretched child might do with something more powerful. And there she was, eyes unfocused, off daydreaming again. It was too much! He rapped Quenelda’s knuckles, pleased at the way she jumped and glared at him.
‘You hold your wand delicately … just so, just so’ – he demonstrated – ‘so that you may cast your spells correctly. Now you try, madam. You rest the end in the palm of your hand, position your thumb to hold it in place, and your first finger — No! No! Have you not been listening? Your first finger here along the shaft of the wand. Now. Attend this.’
And then the old man drew a circle in the air and pirouetted, his robes fanning out ridiculously, before bringing the wand down with delicate grace. ‘And then you flick your wrist – just so, as if you were casting a net of gossamer …’ He handed the wand back to Quenelda. ‘The Heron’s Dance is quite the thing at Court at the moment, madam,’ he said tartly, moustache quivering. ‘All the young ladies are expected to be accomplished. To—’
Quenelda rolled her eyes in horror. Fashions at Court seemed to change every moon. The latest hairstyle, poetry, dancing and romance. And now this ridiculous dance where the wand took the place of the heron’s beak and the steps emulated the courting ritual, ending with the joint casting of a romantic spell, showering the dancers in little stars … Just the kind of thing that awful Armelia would swoon over. Gripping her wand firmly, Quenelda gave it her best shot.
The Professor ducked as her wand whistled over his head. He closed his eyes and sighed. Earl’s daughter or not, he had been tasked with teaching an impossible pupil. She was so bad he barely knew where to start. If she danced like this, they would end up with a decapitated heron! Hardly the stuff of courtly romance.
She holds her wand like a boy, he thought. I knew no good would come of allowing her to wear breeches and boots. Quite shocking! Wouldn’t have happened in my day, oh no! Bad enough when she was a child, but now that she’s a young lady. Supposed to be a young lady, he amended, lips pursed in disapproval as he looked at the buckled boots, the patched jacket. Breeding … that was what it all came down to; who knew who her mother was?
No – he shook his head – his was a hopeless task. The Lady Quenelda would never amount to anything.