Magic most deadly, p.12
Magic Most Deadly, page 12
“Not at all, miss,” he replied politely.
Is there anyone who would know her name? she wrote.
I am sure somebody would, but no one I can identify, Aunt Amelia answered. I told you, I didn’t bother with his personal life. I don’t even know if he had any friends. Mr. Davies spent some time speaking with him—why not ask him?
Maia frowned. The dislike Mr. Davies and her aunt held for each other seemed to go far beyond what seemed like a reasonable animosity caused by two strong personalities clashing with each other. For all that Len had told her the story of the Kaiser’s Advisor—oh good grief, now she was using that absurd title—she couldn’t help but feel there was still more he was hiding. As for her aunt, who knew why she disliked Len? It could have been for any number of reasons.
I will, thank you, she wrote. Any other advice?
Only that you stop shilly-shallying and finish this quickly. If I have to stay another day with Lettie I won’t be held responsible for my actions.
Maia laughed again and looked to the door.
“I believe we are finished, Mr. Becket.”
The small man directed a look of intense concentration toward the paper and clenched his hand in a fist. “Finiatur,” he said. Maia recognized the Latin imperative that translated to “be finished” in English.
“Are all spells done in Latin, then?”
“Not quite, miss,” Becket said. “Latin is not the only language for incantations—and many defensive spells don’t even require a spoken incantation, because often when one needs defense, one cannot speak—but when you do need an incantation, it is considered best for English speakers to use Latin for its precision. Most European magicians use Latin in their incantations.”
“What of non-European magicians?” Maia asked.
“I believe some of the Russians use Greek. Americans, those who use magic at all, usually use Latin as well. The Japanese work magic in a completely different manner than we do, so I’m afraid I don’t know if they even use incantations, or use them in the same way.” Becket looked apologetic.
Maia had to close her eyes for a moment.
“Miss Whitney? Are you unwell?”
“It’s simply—a bit dizzying,” she said. She opened her eyes and attempted a smile. “Learning there’s real magic, used by ordinary people. Learning how to use it. Finding that there’s conspiracies going on behind even political machinations. We have one way of doing magic, but people in another land have another. And on top of everything else, referring to ‘we’ at all, because not only is magic real, I apparently have a knack for it!”
Part of her was appalled at speaking so freely to a servant, but hadn’t Aunt Amelia said magicians paid little attention to class differences? Besides, if she didn’t speak to somebody about all this she would burst.
“It is said that most people have a knack for magic, only they never realize it,” Becket said. “Magic is simply another sense, a different way of seeing and interacting with the world around us. I believe that it is the way we live, the choices we make and personalities we develop as we grow from children to young men and women, which determines whether or not we will be able to tap into that innate ability.”
It wasn’t as flattering as thinking she was born special, but in a way it was even better to think that she, by her own character, had formed herself into a person who could become a magician.
Especially when her personality had always been derided by her sisters, mother, and friends as dull, drab, and boring.
It didn’t take away the oddity of everything, but somehow it helped Maia feel less like she was spinning out of control with it.
“Thank you, Mr. Becket,” she said softly. “I appreciate your words.”
“My pleasure, Miss Whitney,” he said, and he gave her another one of his shy but charming smiles.
Light in the Darkness
Len finished his set in tennis, then slunk off the court and away from the crowd as stealthily as he could without resorting to his chameleon spell. He was surprised at how reluctant he was to use it after Maia’s comment about him being a chameleon.
“Oh, Le-en!” trilled Ellie behind him, but Len pretended not to hear and slunk faster, resorting to an outright run as soon as he rounded the corner and couldn’t be seen by any of the tennis players or spectators.
Ghastly game, tennis. The only worthwhile part of the exercise had been watching the interactions between the people he still couldn’t help but consider his suspects.
The Danvers lads had danced attendance on Mrs. Saunders, who simpered and smirked as she reveled in the young, masculine attention. Mr. Saunders, perspiration gleaming on his balding head as he tried to keep up with Julia on the tennis court, didn’t seem to mind or even notice. The husband and wife paid surprisingly little attention to each other.
Tim Spencer had lounged on the side, keeping one eye on the game and one on his sister. Laura Spencer had spoken earnestly to Foy on some matter or another, while Foy answered her with his eyes on his wife, partnered with Saunders against Ellie and Len himself. Love, or worry? And if the latter, worry about what?
Freddie had mostly watched Ellie and called out encouraging comments, while Hermy stalked around the court with her hands in her pockets, glowering at everybody. Len had found himself wishing more than once that Maia were there, mostly as an antidote to the unpleasantness of Ellie and Hermy. She reminded him of the little stream they had walked alongside for part of their trip up the hill—clear, refreshing, with nothing to hide and only needing a little sunlight to cause her to sparkle, but with unexpected power hidden in her depths, capable of becoming an unstoppable force under the right circumstances.
Not like Ellie, who was all charm and no substance. Nor even Julia, who was sweet and terrifyingly efficient when she put her mind to it, but decidedly uncomplicated. Nor—
Len’s thoughts stuttered to a halt as he met the woman in question outside the library. A quick glance around and a whispered spell let him know no one was within eye- or ear-shot at that moment, giving them a brief chance to discuss the situation.
“Aunt Amelia mentioned that Mr. Corbin had a young lady he was hoping to marry before he stole the papers,” Maia said quickly, apparently feeling the same rush he did. “She didn’t know anything more than that, but suggested that you might have some ideas, as she seemed to recall you spending some time in conversation with him?”
Any conversation had been mostly Corbin whinging about how horrible it was having Amelia Rawlings for a master. Len felt an unexpected rush of anger against Miss Rawlings for insinuating to Maia that he might have information he’d been holding out on her with … until a memory struck him with a force that was staggering.
“By Jove,” he said slowly, angry now with himself. “I’d entirely forgotten. What a fool I am!”
“What? You do know something?”
“I don’t know how helpful it will be, but … yes, I do recall a conversation we had about women. He’d said something about it being a shame we were at war with Austria as well as Germany, because it seemed to him that Austrian women made far better wives than English women.”
“What an appalling stereotype,” Maia said. “I’m not sure if that’s more insulting to Austrian women or English.”
“Both, I should say,” Len said. “And I thought so at the time, only common courtesy dictated I not say so to him, so I mumbled something inconclusive and wandered away again. But—Maia, what if he was seeing an Austrian woman? What if between his disgrace and the general prejudice against Austrians in this country following the war, the two of them were separated, and he wanted to win her heart by selling her papers to bring England to its knees?”
“But Len—it was a man we followed that night,” Maia pointed out. “And there is nobody here at Little Oaks, man or woman, who is Austrian.”
Len waved this aside. “Clearly this Austrian woman used somebody else as a go-between,” he said. “The man who did the actual killing was her tool.”
“Then how does this help us to catch him and recover the papers?” Maia demanded.
Len deflated. He hadn’t thought of that. “Er …”
Their conversation was punctured by a cough. Len jumped, then recovered when he saw it was only Becket. Somehow the spell to make sure no one was listening had automatically excluded his valet.
“Excuse me, sir, Miss Whitney,” Becket said.
“Yes?” Len snapped, and then was ashamed at his brusqueness. Becket was loyal and faithful and had helped to keep him alive more than once, not to mention was a master at the little household spells that kept a person’s life smooth and comfortable, but he’d been tiptoeing on eggshells around Len ever since—since Alec and Jamie… It had got to the point where any more of his careful diffidence and consideration for his employer’s feelings was going to push Len into sacking him.
Interestingly enough, this time Becket didn’t shrink back into himself. Instead, he said, “It strikes me that perhaps we should be looking for someone expressing a strong anti-Austrian—or German—sentiment. If someone is in fact working with or for an Austrian woman, he might wish to hide the fact by seeming to be opposed to them. People in such situation, especially those without a background in working undercover, often overdo the act.”
“That’s—jolly good,” Len said slowly. That was the sort of suggestion Becket used to make, the sort of help he used to give, back before 1916. Back when they made a much more successful team than they had since.
“The only difficulty is that practically everyone is anti-German since the war,” Maia said ruefully. “Even our king, ever since the name changes in 1917. How to distinguish someone overdoing it from someone who has little to no sense of proportion?”
“That’s something for Becket and me to look for,” Len said. “We have enough experience in these matters—it becomes something of an instinct after a while, not something you can explain or describe.”
“I see,” Maia said. Her voice was tart. Len realized he had come across as pompous, but dash it, how else was he to put it?
“So then, Becket keeps an eye and ear out for anyone in the servants’ hall who comes across as false, while I do the same upstairs. In the meantime, you and I need to put together that spell to find the empty spots where the Bakelite case holding the papers might be found, and we need to introduce you to some basic spells to help keep your magic under control.” Len calculated for a moment. “Everyone will be getting ready for dinner now, and then we’ll of course have dinner. After dinner, do you think we could slip away and cast the no-magic spell? Then if there’s time we can also teach you some magic yourself as well.”
“There’s likely to be dancing and socializing after dinner,” Maia said with a sigh. “Our absence will be noticed.”
“Then we’ll have to come up with some good excuses.” Suddenly, Len didn’t want to wait any longer to teach Maia how to use her magical gift—and find the papers, of course, that went without saying. But it was outrageous that she’d had to wait this long to learn how to use her magic.
“I can always claim that most useful excuse for women, a headache,” Maia said.
“Excellent,” Len said. “Whereas I … will have to write a letter to my steward about some matters on the estate.” He was aware that he ought to do that anyway, but Mackenzie was a good man who didn’t need Len hanging over his shoulder, and the tenant who had been renting the house and grounds for several years had proven himself a trustworthy manager as well. Despite his mother’s hints, Len really wasn’t needed at the estate, much to his relief.
Perhaps at some point in his life he’d be happy to retire and take up the role of country gentleman, but at the present time the idea of it was stultifying in the extreme. He enjoyed going back to the Dower House to visit the mater and spending a week or so resting, but he’d go mad if he had to live there.
Still, it made an excellent excuse.
“El—I mean, some of the ladies won’t want to let you off that easily,” Maia warned.
Len grinned. “Not to fret. I have plenty of experience slithering out of unpleasant social obligations.”
To his utter shock, Becket added, “I can confirm that, Miss Whitney,” with the slightest of twinkles in his brown eyes.
Well, well. Who would have guessed Maia could bring out Becket’s cheeky side?
* * *
Dinner was an odd mix of nerve-wracking and tedious. Len felt the way he usually did on far more dangerous missions—vibrantly alive, aware that the slightest error could spell death and disaster, muscles quivering with suppressed action but forced to be still until the right moment.
It was odd, because he didn’t think he was in danger. Nor did he think he was on the verge of uncovering the murderer. No, he was quite certain he had a long way to go before that happened. Too many pieces still didn’t fit together. So then why should he feel so on edge?
His eye fell on Maia, sitting on the other side of the table and down a few places from him. She was dressed in a most unbecoming evening frock; Len was no expert in women’s fashion, but he did have a sister who had a knack for always combining what was stylish and what was flattering in the best way. So far as Len could tell, Maia’s dress was neither. The higher waist, long skirt, and bunchiness around the hips made him think of dresses from the latter years of the war, a far cry from the dropped waist, clean lines, and calf-length skirt that the other ladies (save the Honorable Hermione) wore. The fussiness of it was not attractive, nor did it suit Maia’s personality. The color was appalling as well—a candy pink that would have suited Julia quite well but looked babyish and ridiculous on Maia—and to make matters worse it clashed with the red tints in her hair.
The malicious looks Ellie kept darting at her sister suggested that she knew full well how unattractive the dress was, and rather gloated over it. Ellie herself wore a vibrant green frock with the thinnest of straps holding it onto her shoulders and a sheer chiffon scarf providing quite inadequate coverage. Her dark hair was sleeked close to her head, with a beaded headband keeping it in place. Golden snakes twined up both her bare arms, and her jade earrings dangled almost to her uncovered shoulders. Len found the entire look barbaric, but it seemed Freddie, Timothy Spencer, and Rob Danvers were all smitten, judging by the identical dazed look on their faces as they watched her. Ellie’s triumphant expression indicated she was well aware of the kind of conquests she was making, but the little glances she kept tossing at Len hinted that she wouldn’t be content until he was at her feet as well.
Not that there was a chance of that, even if Maia hadn’t been there. But Maia was there, and even in her rubbish frock—Len was suddenly irrationally convinced that Ellie was somehow responsible for Maia owning and wearing it, and hated her for that—he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. The frisson of excitement running under his skin, he realized, was entirely due to the anticipation of working with her later and showing her how to use her magic.
He would have to pull himself together, or he’d be utterly useless on this task, and then Harrison would have to send Barry to take care of things, and then there would be trouble.
He tried to focus on the conversations running around the table, hoping to hear something in them that would indicate someone hiding pro-German sentiment.
Merope Whitney was seated beside him, ignoring both him and young Spencer, on her other side, in favor of conversing solely with Sir Bertram, seated across the table from her.
“But you must agree that eventually turning the factories over to the workers and removing yourself and all overseers and managers entirely is the only thing to do,” she was saying, leaning forward in her passion.
“Indeed, but not yet,” Sir Bertram said smoothly. “They aren’t ready to wholly govern themselves yet. Not until they are will I feel right about stepping away.”
“Yes, of course. Too many of the working class have been conditioned by years of abuse to accept things the way they are, to not even feel that they should better themselves. That’s why they need education, so that they can learn just what they are capable of.”
Sir Bertram caught Len’s eye and smirked, unnoticed by Merry. Len’s blood boiled up. He had no patience with young Miss Merope’s idealistic view of the world, but before he would exploit her idealism and passion in this way …!
“Then what you really ought to be investing in is schoolteachers, wouldn’t you think?” he couldn’t help but interject into their conversation. Sir Bertram’s smirk turned to a scowl as Merry looked at Len with wide eyes. “Rather than wasting your time trying to change things before they are ready to be changed, you ought to be helping prepare the way for that time to come.”
“Oh!” said Merry. “I never thought of it like that.”
“Schools and schoolteachers are tools of the establishment, my dear,” Sir Bertram hastened to say. “There’s no point in trying to effect change through them. We have to educate people ourself, in our own way, if we want to make anything happen.”
“Oh yes, that’s certainly true,” Merry agreed, but her eyes still looked troubled.
“Only then you have to be careful you aren’t just convincing them to your point of view, which is just as bad as where things are at, only in the opposite direction,” Len said. “What you need is to help them think for themselves, even if that means they don’t agree with you in the end. Wouldn’t you agree, Spencer?”
Timothy Spencer, on Merry’s other side, tore his eyes away from Ellie and nobly jumped into the conversation. “I do indeed,” he said. “In fact that’s something I’ve been hoping to persuade Laura to help me with on our father’s estate, bringing in teachers to the village school who will work with the children to help them think, rather than merely teaching them their ABCs and maths. Though those are important as well,” he added.
“Estates and estate owners running the lives of the people who live there are abominable,” Merry said, but she said it mechanically, her eyes looking into the distance.
