by There was indeed a house in the driveway. With a supreme disregard for convenience or sense, Millie had parked herself almost directly in front of the great double-doors. I had to take a sharp left once I reached the steps, and circle around the familiar flint stone walls of the sturdy eighteenth-century farmhouse, before I saw Alban’s enormous, so-shiny car.
It was purple today.
‘My favourite colour,’ I said as I approached the driver’s seat.
His highness smiled up at me. ‘I know.’
He, as always, was my favourite everything. Bright, intense green eyes, lively and full of approval as he looked at me. Bronze, artfully windswept hair. Loose, cream silk shirt.
I realised I was clutching the pup before me like a meat shield between me and him, and adjusted my grip. ‘So,’ I said lightly. ‘You wanted to see me?’
‘Always.’
At which I raised a brow, half questioning, half disapproving.
‘Sorry,’ he said, and reached up to stroke Goodie’s soft ears. ‘I’m actually playing errand boy. I’ve brought you some things.’ He retrieved a stack of papers from the passenger seat, and handed them to me. ‘That’s the transcript-so-far of Torvaston’s book. There’s less of it than you’ll want, I’m afraid. It’s proving tricky to translate.’
I took it gratefully, careful not to touch his fingers. ‘Thank you. I’m sure it will be useful.’
He shrugged. ‘Maybe. And I’ve brought your new team mate. She’s inside with Milady.’
So he wasn’t to be our ally from Mandridore. ‘Excellent,’ I said brightly. ‘Then we’re almost ready to go.’
I waited, with the vague hope that he’d say something like allow me to escort you to your unusually house-shaped chariot, milady, and then never leave again.
Sadly, he merely nodded, and turned the key in the ignition. His beautiful car started up with a purr. ‘Be careful out there, Ves. I’m pretty sure it will be dangerous.’
‘Doubtless,’ I said, with a failed attempt at a smile. ‘But then, so am I.’
‘Oh, always.’ He released the handbrake.
‘So you aren’t coming with us?’ I blurted. Great. So much for cool composure.
Alban looked up at me. ‘I wanted to. Mother… said no.’
‘And you have to do as you’re told.’
He smiled, faintly. ‘For the most part, yes. I do.’
What a dreary prospect. I didn’t try again to detain him, and after a moment’s hesitation, he said, ‘Bye, Ves. Call me when you get back,’ and drove slowly away.
I stood watching until the glorious Purplemobile was out of sight, for once appreciating pup’s clumsy attempts to groom my face.
‘All okay?’ said Jay, from right behind me.
I jumped, and turned. ‘How long have you been there?’
‘About three seconds.’
I must’ve been lost in thought; I hadn’t heard him approach. ‘All okay,’ I said, with my firm, professional, no-nonsense smile. ‘We’ve got this.’ I waved the papers at him. ‘Transcript of His Majesty’s Mysterious Book of Magick, or some of it. And our new associate’s inside.’
Jay glanced at the empty driveway, down which Alban had just disappeared. ‘Oh?’
‘Yes, Alban isn’t coming with us. I don’t know who the lady is, yet; he didn’t say.’
He was either wise or sensitive enough not to show his probable relief at Alban’s lack of involvement. ‘Right,’ he said instead, with a nod. ‘Let’s go introduce ourselves.’
Our new associate was a troll with at least a dash of giant heritage, or so I was forced to conclude. We found her in the Audience Chamber — the same room, I noted in passing, where I had first met Alban. She, though, was not to be found lounging at one of the tables, supping upon chocolate and pastries and reading a book. She stood not far from the door, her regal posture emphasising her excessive height, her large hands neatly folded as she awaited our arrival. I might have expected a lady dispatched straight from the Court at Mandridore to be sumptuously garbed, but she was dressed in plain trousers, a simple shirt, and sturdy boots made for tramping about. Ready for anything, then. She was not young; her wealth of hair was snow-white, and her face wreathed in the tracery of advanced age. Nonetheless, she was unbowed, and emanated an enviable kind of vitality.
She observed our approach coolly, and subjected us both to a swift, keen look before she stepped forward to meet us. ‘You must be Miss Vesper,’ she said, in a low, rather deep voice. ‘And Mr. Patel.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ I said, on my best behaviour because — her casual attire notwithstanding — something about her self-possession and serenity suggested great power. Whether of the magickal kind or the courtly-status kind, I couldn’t yet say.
‘Emellana Rogan,’ she said. ‘I am here at Her Majesty’s direction.’
My jaw dropped.
‘It— I— um, wonderful to meet you,’ I managed. ‘Jay, Ms. Rogan is—’
‘I know,’ said Jay, and looked unsure whether to bow or shake her hand. He decided upon the latter, and received what appeared to be a painfully hearty handshake from the lady.
Emellana Rogan. Dear, giddy gods, the woman is the stuff of legend. She’s had a thriving academic career since well, well before I was born; her papers and studies fill every magickal library worth its salt from Land’s End to John O’Groats — and well beyond the shores of Britain, too, no doubt. She’s written on every major magickal development since about 1941, unearthed a host of lost spells, dragged all manner of magickal history out of the earth with her bare hands… she’s an archaeologist, charmwright and scholar all in one, and with giddy-gods-know what other talents besides.
Well, apparently one of her less well-known talents is similar to my mother’s. That makes sense, doesn’t it?
‘I can’t say that I have all your books,’ I said, aware that I was gushing but unable, quite, to stop. ‘There are so many. But I’ve got at least half. My favourite is Artefacts and Alchemy, though I also love Charms: An Unorthodox History, and—’
‘Bestiary of Extinct Beasts,’ Jay put in. ‘Especially the part about the Wight settlements, that was brilliant—’
Jay and I were gabbling like teenagers. This realisation seemed to strike both of us at once, for we fell silent, leaving a somewhat awkward pause.
I couldn’t tell if Jay was blushing, but I was. Self-possession, Ves. I lifted my chin.
Ms. Rogan smiled graciously, without condescension, and gave us to understand that she was greatly flattered by our immense admiration, etc.
Then she said six words which threatened to send me off into another paroxysm of awkwardness, namely: ‘I enjoyed your thesis, Miss Vesper.’
She had read my thesis? My thesis! I couldn’t speak.
‘Um,’ I croaked after a moment. ‘Call me Ves.’
Very smooth.
But she nodded, and said: ‘Call me Em.’
Unthinkable.
Jay stepped into the breach. ‘So, you are a… I’m sorry, I don’t know the term for what Ves’s mother does.’
‘It is an uncommon art,’ said… Em. ‘And not much regarded, its uses being considered few. As such, I am unsure a term has ever been coined for it. But yes, I am able to detect traces of past magicks performed.’
‘You’d think such a talent would be more useful,’ I said, interested out of my paralysis.
‘It is vague,’ said… Em. ‘That is its primary drawback. I can determine that some manner of magick was once conducted in this hall, for instance. But what of that? There are traces of many kinds of magick done here, as well there might be. It is difficult to say for certain what kinds of magick they were; impossible to say what they were intended to achieve, when they were performed, or by whom. Therefore, it is of little relevance. I am hoping, however, that your lyre may be able to assist me there.’
‘It’s on its way down,’ said Jay. ‘Orlando thinks it absorbs magick, too.’
Emellana Rogan appeared highly interested in this nugget of possibility. ‘Absorbs?’ she said sharply. ‘I understood it to amplify — certain things, at least.’
‘Both, perhaps?’ said Jay.
‘And that would make some sense,’ I put in. ‘The lyre amplifies some arts because it’s full of absorbed magick.’
‘Which arts?’ said Emellana.
‘We have not yet had much opportunity to test it,’ said Jay.
‘Field tests are always so much more amusing,’ said Emellana, with the trace of a smile, and I liked her excessively all over again. ‘Are we, otherwise, ready for departure?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ I said. Jay and I had been packed and ready to go for days. Our various goods and supplies would have been delivered to Millie’s parlour by now, Mauf included; we awaited only Emellana, and the lyre.
I heard the click of small claws on marble as my pup came trotting in. She gave that little, triumphant yip that says: ‘Found you!’, and galloped past me in favour of acquainting herself with Emellana.
Emellana bent down at once, her face wreathed in delight. ‘I’d heard of your little companion,’ she said. ‘To think! A goldnose, alive again in England!’ She and the pup declared themselves delighted with one another, through a series of ear-rubs, belly-barings and yips. ‘Are there more?’ she added, looking up at me.
‘No… well, not in this Britain, anymore. There are hundreds of them on the fifth.’
‘I have scarcely felt a greater anticipation than when I heard of this fifth Britain,’ said Emellana, her faded blue eyes alight. ‘Is it as wondrous as I imagine?’
‘We have seen little of it, yet, but still I’d say yes,’ I answered.
‘Now’s our chance to see a lot more,’ put in Jay.
Emellana straightened with alacrity, and smiled. ‘Very well, let us not delay any longer. Can this lyre be retrieved? I shall await you in the house.’
We separated three ways: Em to Millie’s parlour, Jay to enquire after the lyre, and me to find Val and the promised article of Miranda’s.
I found her still in Miranda’s room, or what used to be Miranda’s. Was it significant that the room had not yet been reassigned? Was Milady hoping Miranda could be persuaded to come back?
If her expertise was as rare as Milady suggested, then the most likely answer to that was “yes.” Good luck with that. The Society could hardly be in a hurry to welcome her Home.
‘There isn’t much here,’ Val said as I walked in. ‘I’m having trouble finding anything useful.’
I saw her point. Miranda had a suite of three rooms: a living room and kitchen, a bathroom and a bedroom. The kitchen still contained its complement of utensils and pans and such, but besides that, the place was mostly cleaned out. Miranda hadn’t planned to come back; that much was clear.
I did recall, though, that Miranda often had a somewhat messy appearance. Her hair was coming out of its tail; her jumpers had holes in; she’d often forgotten something and had to go running back for it.
‘Checked under the bed?’ I asked.
Val just gave me a withering look from her magickal equivalent of a wheelchair.
‘Right.’ I crossed back to the bedroom and dropped to the floor. A few minutes’ crawling about on my belly might have been dusty and undignified, but I did procure one, potentially useful item. I jumped up, waving it triumphantly.
‘A stocking?’ Val said. ‘Really?’
‘I would’ve much preferred an old jumper or something, too, but this’ll do.’ Given the quantity of dust coating the flimsy thing, I wasn’t sure how much of Miranda’s scent might still be discernible from it. But I trusted the pup’s enormous nose.
‘Rather you than me.’ Val floated away towards the door. ‘Call me when you get back. And be careful out there, hm?’
People kept saying that to me lately. ‘Will do,’ I called after her, and stuffed the stocking into my pocket. Next stop, Mellicent Makepeace.
