by I sent a few messages to Miranda after that, mostly variations on the general theme of why?
To my regret, but not to my surprise, she did not answer any of them.
By the next morning, it was official: Miranda had gone. Rob brought us a copy of the Society’s internal memo on the subject.
I winced upon reading it. Milady was most seriously displeased.
Miranda Evans is no longer a member of this Society. The circumstances of her departure are not for public dissemination. Let it be known, however, that any and all communication with Ms. Evans is strongly discouraged.
There was more, but not much. I pictured the icy fury with which Milady had penned the missive (or dictated it, she being incorporeal and all) and shuddered.
It did raise an interesting question, though. Had Miranda corrupted anybody else, prior to her departure? I could only assume that was the fear lurking behind Milady’s prohibition on communication. We none of us wished to lose any more people to Ancestria Magicka.
I’d had to field a string of messages from Indira, too. She had discovered Jay’s absence by way of several failed and unanswered phone calls and was cheerfully freaking out about him. Since I was in much the same state, albeit more secretly, there was not much I could do to reassure her. I could not even say for sure that George Mercer’s offer was still open, not after he and Zareen had so obviously fallen out over Miranda.
Difficult morning. I treated my nerves to an extra helping of chocolate from Milady’s wonderful pot, recruited my strength with some of Mrs. Amberstone’s best pancakes, and boosted my confidence with a change of hair colour. Maybe it sounds frivolous, but try it before you judge me.
I stepped out a little later, tossing my parti-coloured hair (cream at the top and daffodil-yellow at the bottom, with a smooth ombre fade in between). I was beginning to lose my patience with this particular mess, and it was high time we sorted it out.
I found Zareen in much the same frame of mind. A solid ten hours of sleep had restored her colour somewhat, and she looked much nearer her old self when she opened her door. ‘Plan?’ she said.
‘Find Jay.’ I ticked off point one on my fingers. ‘Find out what that isle of Melmidoc’s is about. Figure out what the bloody hell has got into Miranda and fix it. Discover the source of the Dappledok pups and fix that, too. And find out once and for all where in space or time those houses are going to when they vanish.’ I ticked them all off on my fingers, using rather more fingers in the process than I was hoping.
‘That’s a wish list,’ said Zareen. ‘What’s the plan?’
‘No bloody clue.’
‘Right, then. Situation normal.’ Zareen grabbed her jacket, stuffed her feet into her boots and fell in beside me as I made for the stairs.
‘The party’s at seven,’ Zareen said, checking the time. ‘We’ve got ten hours until then. Pick a place to start?’
‘Baron Alban.’
‘Needing a little eye candy?’
‘Always, but that’s not it this time. Val’s drawn a blank on Melmidoc’s isle as far as our library goes, and Mauf has nothing for us either. We need another resource, and I can’t think of a better one than the library at the Troll Courts. Can you?’
‘I can punch George in the face until he consents to check their records for us.’
‘Think that’ll work?’
‘No. And anyway, I’d have to tell him all about the isle first, and we sort of agreed not to do that.’
‘Right. Plan forming. Part one in progress.’ I composed another message to Miranda and sent it before I could change my mind.
It said: Rage aside, Mir, those books prove you want to help us. So help. Find out anything you can about a secret isle, probably 1600s, linked to names like Melmidoc Redclover. Please. Thanks xx
We hadn’t given Miranda the full low-down about the spire before, probably because it had not seemed relevant. We’d just told her about the part we knew would interest her: Dramary’s Bestiary. I wondered, though. Had she heard the rest from someone else? Word tended to travel at Home. If she had, she would have taken that information to Ancestria Magicka — which meant that George Mercer must be lying about their ignorance. If so, what was his game?
I showed my message to Zareen, who grunted, a sound halfway between approval and irritation.
‘I know, I know.’
‘I hate this.’
‘Me too. Right. Part two in progress.’ I called the Baron. ‘Alban,’ I said crisply the moment he answered. ‘It’s Ves. May I speak frankly?’
‘Please.’
‘This shit is driving us crazy and we would like to resolve it. We propose a joining of forces.’
‘Oh? Among whom, exactly?’
‘The Thrilling Three, even if we are presently down to the Testy Two, and the Troll Court.’
‘As represented by me?’
‘Yes.’
I waited. I knew the Baron would understand my meaning. I wasn’t just asking for his personal assistance; I was requesting the official aid of Their Majesties’ Court itself.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said.
The Baron arrived in person about an hour later.
Zareen and I spent the intervening time scouring Miranda’s books for what Nancy Drew might have called “leads” (unsuccessfully). About all I could determine from Millie Makepeace’s diaries was that she was batshit crazy, and largely unaware of her Waymaster abilities. Apparently magickal education for young women of breeding was on the underwhelming side, back in the day. I wondered who had introduced her to her powers (after death…?), and how they had known she’d had any. I shied away from the idea that someone from her own family had been responsible for her after-death fate, but one or two references to her father made me wonder a bit. Had he been a practitioner of the Weird Stuff? Perhaps.
Zareen read through her pamphlet with an irritable frown, and finally snapped it closed with, I thought, unnecessary violence. The booklet was old, and delicate. I gently took it from her. ‘No use?’
‘Tells me nothing new.’
Judging from her glowering dissatisfaction, it had reminded her of a number of things she did not like to think about.
I checked the title. Dark Deeds and Strange Wayes: The Wyrde Path. No author was listed.
‘It’s all new to me,’ I said. ‘Mind if I read?’
Zareen had signalled her lack of objection with a shrug, and had then proceeded to stretch out in the grass (we were out in Mrs. Amberstone’s garden again, under the walnut trees). Whether she was sleeping or brooding I could not tell.
I skimmed through the pamphlet, keeping an absent eye on my phone in case of word from the Baron or Miranda — or Mabyn Redclover, at the Hidden Ministry. I’d informed her of the fate of the spire, and had capitalised on her satisfaction by pleading for help. I knew Val would be doing her utmost to come up with something, too; with that many people at work on the matter of the mysterious isle, I had hopes of hearing something useful soon.
But the pamphlet.
‘Chilling read,’ I said when I’d finished it.
That was an understatement. It proved to be the work of an early serial killer. The author — who was so cagey about his or her identity that I could not even determine their gender — had discovered at a horrifyingly young age that the “art” of killing (their words, not mine) had a pleasurably amplifying effect upon their “wyrde wayes” (also their words). The obliging author had conducted a number of grisly murders over a period of years (all described in detail) and recorded the effects of these despicable deeds upon their unsavoury magicks. All very positive, I was to believe; after several such murders, the author was understood to be in possession of virtually unheard-of power in fields such as necromancy, and could oblige any Ghoste or Spirite to do my Bydding, as well as making Puppets of the Deade, and, perhaps most interestingly, restorynge Life that has been Loste.
Did they mean converting the dead into the undead, or a revival from death back into a state of genuine life? If the latter, that was… remarkable. I experienced a vision of this unknown necromancer four hundred years ago, killing the same victim over and over again in the name of experimentation, and shuddered. Thank goodness I had not been burdened with the Stranger Arts. I wouldn’t have lasted five minutes at the School of Weird.
I was not absolutely convinced by the author’s claims. The text displayed clear signs of narcissism and megalomania, in my humble opinion, and surely the links between murder and “wyrde” powers couldn’t be that simple or powerful or we’d have seen a total ban on all such arts many years ago.
But Zareen accepted it, and she ought to know.
I handed the pamphlet back to her.
Message from Miranda. Tread carefully, Ves.
‘Is that it?’ I said in disgust, quoting it to Zareen. ‘What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?’
‘Means she knows something but cannot or will not say, other than to imply that it is dangerous.’
I sighed. ‘And that means Ancestria Magicka knows something, which means maybe it’s time to start punching George in the face.’
Zareen complied, metaphorically speaking.
And then came the Baron, strolling over Mrs. Amberstone’s neatly-trimmed lawn like he had all the time in the world. I suppose with those long legs, he could stroll all he liked and still make faster progress than I would at a brisk trot. He’d dressed down: he wore a pair of crisp, dark blue trousers and a loose white shirt, open at the neck. Polished shoes, no hat, his bronze-blonde hair artfully disordered. If anything, the effect was more devastating than all the impeccable, elaborate style of his previous ensembles. He smiled at me as he approached, his green eyes bright with apparent pleasure at seeing me, and something odd happened in my stomach.
‘Morning,’ I said lightly.
Baron Alban made us a polite, courtly bow amid exquisitely courteous greetings. I did not imagine it: his smile definitely lingered on me. ‘Morning, ladies. What’s the news?’
‘Not much.’ I showed him Miranda’s note, upon which he made no comment save for a raised eyebrow.
‘I’d hoped you were bringing the cavalry,’ I said, noticing all the empty space around him that was not filled with other knowledgeable and useful members of Their Majesties’ Court.
‘What, one wickedly handsome troll isn’t enough for you?’
‘Well, since you mention it…’
He grinned. ‘I’m afraid it’s just me, but I do bring help.’
I sat up. ‘Oh?’
‘I don’t know if you realise it, but you and Jay are popular at Court at the moment — what with uncovering the blight at the lost enclaves, hacking your way into Farringale and coming out alive, and now tackling this spire business.’
‘Their Majesties aren’t opposed to investigating there?’
‘No. It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve disagreed with the Ministry. But Ancestria Magicka has them worried, and angry. Lord Garrogin was a friend.’
‘Was?’
‘Mm.’ The Baron’s mouth set in a grim line. ‘He isn’t anymore. His invitation to the Court has been revoked.’
‘So, the isle?’ I prompted.
‘I drew a blank at the library. Nothing there. I can say this with certainty because Her Majesty interviewed our Chief Archivist on the subject personally. I never saw a man more terrified. I don’t think he could have lied to save his life.
‘But, the library is not our only resource. The Court is a court in two senses of the word: it’s the home of Their Majesties, and it’s also a place of justice. Has been ever since the fall of Farringale. A lot of cases have been heard there, and a lot of complaints lodged.’
I discreetly checked the time. Not discreetly enough, for the Baron saw me and smiled a wry smile. ‘All right, the short version: I consulted the Scribe of the Court of Justice. One of his duties is to maintain the court’s records, including recopying the oldest and most faded documents at need. And those date from the early sixteen hundreds through into the eighteen hundreds.
‘Late last year he copied and refreshed an account of a complaint brought by one Talbot Makepeace, of Suffolk, who claimed that his house and his daughter had been stolen from him. The complaint was dismissed because his daughter was known to have been recently executed, and he could give no proper explanation as to how his house had been filched. He claimed it had walked away, and his dead daughter with it. I believe the poor man was written off as mad. He was noted to have shrieked something about that accursed isle as he was dragged from the Court.’
‘Ah!’ I crowed. ‘A link between Millie and the isle!’
‘Indeed.’ The Baron paused to smile at me. ‘Another, older complaint referred to an unnamed isle in a similar way. This one was dated to somewhere in the sixteen thirties, so the Scribe estimated, and it was a much more serious case. An attempt was made to prosecute one Melmidoc Redclover and his brother Drystan for the creation of a secret magickal society, one unauthorised by any power in existence. Now, they were not actually obliged to have permission in order to set up their own establishment; there was no such stringent system of laws then, as there are now. But if you wished to create a new magickal nation, with its own legalities and rules and its own, independent authority, it was considered polite to have the support of your peers. To act without it was to make a lot of people nervous, for what might you be planning to do? Melmidoc and Drystan skipped that part. The account, unfortunately, is not that useful, because the Redclover brothers could not be got hold of for comment. They’d disappeared, and so had the isle.’
