The Wizard of London (27 page)

On
the wall over the fireplace was a photographic portrait of the Hartons,
presumably made in India, since the woman was wearing a white gown suited to
the tropics.

And
there was no doubt; the woman was “his” Isabelle. Nor did that
sepia photograph do anything to erase the memories from his mind. Though
looking grave and serious, and certainly as if she had seen many things and
perhaps endured many trials, Isabelle Harton looked considerably less aged than
the face that gazed back at David’s from his mirror every morning. The
years, which had not been kind to him, had laid a light hand on her.

“I
hope you understand that while we are grateful for your attention, we are not
entirely convinced that the threat has ended with the death of your
miscreant,” Frederick Harton said, as he seated himself behind his desk.

“Ah,
well, that is what I came here to speak to Mrs.Harton about,” David
replied, grateful for a chance to turn the tide of conversation in his own
favor. He drew himself up a little and gathered all of his authority about
himself. “You see, Mr.Harton, my associates and I think you would be
doing better to look among the ranks of the psychical set for your enemy, if
indeed there is one.”

He
rattled on, repeating all the arguments made in advance, to an attentive, but
neutral Frederick Harton, until at last he ran out of arguments.

“I
see,” Harton said, sounding unconvinced. “These are all good
arguments, to be sure, but it does not answer
how
such presumed enemy
contacted an Elemental Master in the first place, nor how he or she convinced
said Master to work for them in the second place. It is a conundrum that has as
yet to be addressed.”

Drat
the man! Why did he have to be so intelligent and thoughtful? David had hoped
to find a stereotypical retired Colonial soldier, rigid and uncomfortable with
matters nonmilitary—or else a moony mystic, easily persuaded by a
stronger personality. He found neither. Instead, he discovered he was facing an
intellect as powerful as his own; he had literally met his match. If this man
did not lead a psychical Master’s Circle, it was because he felt enough
of them existed that he did not need to create one.

“Unfortunately,”
he replied, setting down the empty glass and rising, “The one person who
can answer that has gone beyond the reach of our justice, so we shall never
know, I expect. Good evening, Mr.Harton. I hope your school continues to flourish
with an absence of incident.”

“Oh,
where there are children there will always be incidents,” came the ironic
reply, as Harton rose and shook his hand. “One simply hopes to keep them
confined within the four walls of the school.”

David
Alderscroft took his leave, and his carriage, feeling that somehow, though
swords had never been crossed in the meeting, he had come off second-best.

***

Props
and costumes for the play had mostly been constructed, and still the full cast
had not yet been chosen. Nan and Sarah were to be Helena and Hermia, the two
friends whose tangled affairs formed the bulk of the play—a natural
choice, though Nan was a little disappointed, as she had hoped to be Hippolyta
the Amazon Queen. She rather fancied herself in armor.

But
Mem’sab and Sarah had convinced her that the semicomic role of Helena
suited her better, and after studying the text with Mem’sab’s help,
Nan agreed. Anna Thompson, a girl tall for her age and rather angular, would be
Hippolyta; the role was not precisely a demanding one, when it all came down to
it, and Anna would fill it well enough. Almost all the other roles had been
filled, except two of the most crucial: Bottom, and Puck.

The
difficulty was that the most natural choice for either of them was Tommy, and he
clearly could not fill both roles. Given a choice, he wanted Bottom; he clearly
lusted after the donkey’s head worn by the character for the scene with
the fairies. He had already tried the papier-mâché creation on so
often that not even the much-amused servants were startled to see him cavorting
about in it anymore. But in Nan’s opinion there was no one else clever
and lively enough to play Puck—

Mem’sab,
the girls, and the birds had ensconced themselves in that overgrown summerhouse
(which Mem’sab referred to as a “folly”) to sort through the
final cast options. And Mem’sab was growing a little frustrated, in an
amused sense.

“I
vow,” she said in exasperation, after yet another sort-through of the
boys, shuffling them into various parts to see if a new configuration would
solve the dilemma, “I am tempted to play Puck myself at this point. There
is not a single boy half as able to do Bottom as Tommy, he has most of the part
by heart already. But there isn’t anyone, girl or boy, as well suited to
Puck either! Except, perhaps you, Nan.”

“But
I’ve already got most of Helena by heart!” Nan wailed, aghast at
the notion of having to learn a different role after all that work.

“Ah,
dear lady, and tender maidens,” said a bright voice from the doorway,
making them all turn, “Perhaps I can solve this problem for you.”

There
was a boy there, perhaps a little older and a trifle taller than Nan. He had a
merry face, sun-browned, with reddish brown hair and green eyes, and wore very
curious clothing—

At
first glance, it
looked
perfectly ordinary, if the local farmers
hereabouts were inclined to wear a close-fitting brown tunic and knee-breeches
rather than sensible undyed linen smocks and buff trousers, but at second
glance there was something subtly wrong about the cut and fit of the garments.
First, they looked like something out of a painting, something antique, and
secondly, they looked as if they were made of leather. Now, the blacksmith wore
leather trousers, and the village cobbler, but no one else did around here.

And
there was something else about this boy, a brightness, a spirit of vitality,
that was not ordinary at all.

And
that was the moment when Neville made a surprised croak, and jumped down off
the marble seat where he had been pecking with great interest at a hole in the
stone, to be joined on the floor by Grey. Both of them stalked over to the
boy’s feet, looked up at him—

—and
bowed.

There
was no other name for what they did, and Nan’s mouth fell agape.

But
this was not the only shock she got, for Mem’sab had risen from
her
seat, and sunk again into a curtsy. Not a head-bowed curtsy, though, this was
one where she kept her eyes firmly on the newcomer.

“
‘Hail to thee, blithe spirit!’ ” she said as she rose.

The
boy’s eyes sparkled with mischief and delight.

“Correct
author, but wrong play and character, for never could I be compared to
Ariel,” he replied and swiftly stooped down to offer Neville and Grey
each a hand. Each accepted the perch as Nan stared, her mouth still open.
“How now, Bane of Rooks!” he said to Neville. “I think you
should return to your partner, before bees see her open mouth and think to
build a hive therein!”

With
another bow, and a croak, Neville lofted from the boy’s outstretched hand
and landed on Nan’s shoulder. Nan took the hint and shut her mouth.

Wordlessly,
he handed Grey back to Sarah, who took her bird with round eyes, as if she saw
even more than Nan did to surprise her. “So ho, fair dame, did you think
to plan to play my play on Midsummer’s Day and
not
have me
notice?” he said to Mem’sab, fists planted on his hips.

“I
had not thought to have the honor of your attention, good sirrah,”
Mem’sab replied, her eyes very bright and eager. “Indeed, I had not
known that such as you would deign to notice such as we.”

He
laughed. “Well spoke, well spoke! And properly, too! Well then, shall I
solve your conundrum with my humble self, and let your restless Tommy play the
ass?”

Nan
blinked hard, as a furtive glimmer of light that could not have actually been
there circled the boy, and then her brain shook itself like a waking dog,
everything that wasn’t quite “right” shifted itself into a
configuration she could hardly believe, and she burst out with,
“You’re
him
! You’re
Puck
!”

The
boy laughed, a laugh that had a friendly tone of mockery in it, but as much to
mock himself as to make fun of Nan. He bowed to her with a flourish.
“Robin Goodfellow at your service, my London daisy! Not often evoked
these present days, but often in the thoughts of my good country folk, who care
very little for the passage of time.”

“And
how am I to explain one extra boy to the others?” Mem’sab asked
dryly, rising from her curtsy. “Not that I would dare to contradict your
will, but we poor mortals must have our proper explanations.”

“Ah,
that,” he waved his hand airily. “A simple thing. Say I am the son
of a friend of yours, I have conned the part at my school and will come to fill
it here. And in your practices, do you take my part as you threatened
to.”

Mem’sab
smiled. “A sound plan, but what of those others in my charge who will see
you for something of what you are and may ask questions I cannot answer without
your leave?”

He
laid his finger alongside his nose, and then pointed it at her. “Well
asked. Well thought. Perhaps a touch of glamorie will not come amiss, with your
permission. ‘Twill do them no harm. They will notice nothing amiss,
nothing that their minds cannot find an explanation for, and the explanation
will seem to come from outside their minds.”

“
‘Ere!” Nan objected. “Not on us! Please!”

A
“touch of glamorie” sounded to her as if Puck was going to do
something that would make her and Sarah forget what he was—and she
didn’t want to forget!

“We’d
like to know what is really happening, please,” Sarah chimed in, as Grey
bobbed in agreement and Neville shifted his weight from foot to foot on
Nan’s shoulder.

Puck
cast a glance at Mem’sab. “And so what think you?”

“That
both these girls can hold a secret,” Mem’sab said instantly.
“Certainly they already have done so many times in the past.”

“Then
I bow to your will, London daisy,” Puck replied with a grin. “Let
it be as you wish, and you will see me again, on Midsummer’s
Night!”

Nan
blinked, as there was a sudden glare across her eyes, like a flash of sun
reflected from water, and when she could see again he was gone.

Neville
bobbed and quorked once. He sounded surprised.

“Cor!”
Grey said, in Nan’s voice. “Blimey!”

“That
was… entirely unexpected,” Mem’sab said, sitting down hard,
and looking a little out of breath, as if she had been running. “Of all
the things that could have happened here, this is not one I would have ever
anticipated! To have so powerful a spirit simply walk in on one—I confess
it has taken my breath away!”

“Was
that really P—
him
?” Sarah asked, her eyes still round, as
if she didn’t quite dare speak the name aloud. “The same as in the
play?”

“Ah,
now… I hesitate to pin down someone like him to any sort of limited
description,” Mem’sab temporized. “And the Puck of
Shakespeare’s play is far more limited than the reality. Let’s just
say he is—old. One of the oldest Old Ones in England. As a living
creature, he probably saw the first of the flint workers here, and I suspect
that he will see the last of us mortals out as well, unless he chooses to
follow some of the other Old Ones wherever they have gone, sealing the doors of
their barrows behind them. If he does, it will be a sad day for England, for a
great deal of the magic of this island will go with him. He is linked to us in
ways that some of those who were once worshipped as gods are not.”

Nan
thought about asking what all this meant and how Mem’sab knew it, then
thought better of the notion. Mem’sab had said that she and Sarah could
hold their tongues, and this seemed like a good time to prove it.

Instead,
she said, “Didn’ you say that them barrows is burial mounds of
kings an’ such? So how can they be doors?”

Mem’sab
chuckled. “And so they are. But you, Nan, are a little girl and Neville
is a raven—yet at the same time, you are a Warrior of the Light, and
Neville is your battle companion. Some things, and some people, can be two
different things at the same time. Barrows can be both portals and burial
vaults, and those who have no eyes to see the doors in the hills will not be
troubled by the knowledge that they are both.”

Well,
that seemed sensible enough, and Nan nodded.

“Will
we see ‘im again afore the day?” she asked.

“Now
that I cannot tell you.” Mem’sab pursed her lips. “If you do,
be polite, respectful, but don’t fear him. He is the very spirit of
mischief, but there is no harm in him and a great deal of good. You might learn
much from him, and I never heard it said that any of his sort would stand by
and let a child come to harm. His knowledge is broad and deep and he has never
been averse to sharing it with mortals.”

“But
would he steal us away?” Sarah asked, suddenly growing pale.
“Don’t
they
take children, and leave behind
changelings?”

Here,
Nan was baffled; she had no idea what Sarah was talking about. But
Mem’sab did.

“I
don’t believe he’d be likely to,” she replied after a long
moment of thought. “Firstly, I don’t think he would have revealed
himself to us if he was going to do that. Secondly, what
I
know of
such things is that his sort never take children that are cared for and wanted,
only the ones abused and neglected.” She held out a hand, and Sarah went
straight to her to be hugged reassuringly. “No one can say that about any
of you, I do hope!”

With
the casting problem solved, preparations for the play went on so well that it
almost seemed as if there was a blessing on the whole plan. Tommy was, of
course, in ecstasy at being able to play Bottom. Not only were the servants
charmed by the idea of being an audience for such a thing, but the local vicar
got wind of the scheme, and asked if they would be part of the church
fête, which was also to be Midsummer’s Day. Now that was something
of a surprise for all of them, but a welcome one, at least for those who, like
Nan and Tommy, felt no fear at performing before larger audiences. So far as
both of
them
were concerned, they’d get right up on stage at
Covent Garden without a qualm.