The Midnight Queen (9 page)

Well, somewhere there must be answers to all of these questions, and he would—he must—find them out.

Gray shook his head. The world had gone awry; times were bad indeed if the gods' attempt to restore order to the Kingdom of Britain could find no better instrument than Graham Marshall.

*   *   *

Unable to sleep, Gray rose from his bed an hour or so past midnight and wandered about the house, trying to feel thankful at having called enough light to guide his way. So lost in thought that he paid little heed to where his feet were taking him, he blinked in surprise to find himself standing before the doors of the Professor's library. With a shrug, he turned the handle on the left-hand door and pushed it open. Once inside, however, he was stopped in his tracks by the scene within.

Seated at the oaken table—clad in a velveteen dressing-gown, a candle at her elbow, poring over a rather battered codex and humming softly to herself—was Sophie.

At his approach she looked up; the humming ceased, and for a moment naked terror immobilised her features. Then, seeing by whom she was discovered, she relaxed, eventually producing a smile.

“You have found me out at last,” she said softly. “You did not imagine, surely, that he
allowed
me to read these things?” When Gray remained where he was, staring, she waved a hand at him. “Come in, then, and shut the door.”

*   *   *

So began perhaps the happiest, and certainly the most interesting, period of Sophie's life to date. Gray, it appeared, not only was prepared to tolerate an unending stream of questions beginning, “What does Gaius Aegidius mean by . . . ?” but seemed actually to enjoy helping her to unravel the overwrought Latin of the
Elementa magicæ
, and they passed many a midnight hour in this pleasant pursuit.

It was perhaps a little disconcerting that he had appeared at the door of the library just when she had been fervently wishing for someone to help her with Gaius Aegidius, but Sophie did not receive so many gift horses as to be in the habit of looking them in the mouth.

“You are very patient,” she said to him, on a night when they had spent the best part of an hour parsing through a single page on the subject of the heritability of magickal talents.

“I have always liked teaching,” Gray replied, smiling at her; it was a smile with a good deal of regret in it, but still a world away from the desolated expression she had momentarily seen on that first night when he had opened the library door. “I had in mind to become a teaching Fellow, and make it my living. Though I do not suppose I shall be permitted to do so now,” he added ruefully, half under his breath.

“Why not?” Sophie asked. “You must know that you have a decided gift for it. Oh! Do you mean, because you are having such trouble with your own magick?”

“No, because—” But whatever Gray had begun to reveal, he evidently thought better of finishing, and merely said, “That among other things, yes. Now: This passage is the key to understanding Gaius Aegidius. What do you make of
nihil in hominum genere rarius praedito magnis viribus et magna sapienta inveniri potest
?”

Sophie parsed it carefully out, and after some thought suggested, “‘Nothing is more rarely found among men than one endowed with great strength and great wisdom'?” She considered: If Gray had asked for her interpretation of the passage, it could only be because there was something in it besides its plain meaning. What else might it mean, then? “I suppose it might mean that Gaius Aegidius had met many strong fools and many wise weaklings, and . . . and thought the whole world must match his own experience.”

Gray rewarded her with a more genuine smile. “And there you have the essence of the man,” he said, “and the reason that one must regard his pronouncements with some degree of caution. Though the spells themselves are perfectly sound, in my experience.”

Sophie nodded and made a mental note. Not, she reflected sadly, that she was ever likely to have occasion to use any of Gaius's spells, or of anyone else's.

*   *   *

Some half dozen of Gray's own books found their way into Sophie's possession over the course of these midnight meetings: his own copy of the
Elementa magicæ
—its pages closely covered with annotations variously informative, exasperated, and amusing—together with Sir Ivor Newton's
Principia alchemica
and the first two of the six-volume
De Ratio Magicis
of Junius Quintus Gratianus, among others. He asked her on several occasions whether she was quite sure that she had no magick herself, but gave it up when, instead of turning the conversation, she let him see that the question distressed her.

Sophie in turn undertook to improve Gray's command of Brezhoneg, beginning with a book of adventure tales of which Joanna was particularly fond. He was quicker at it than she had expected; Brezhoneg, he explained, was related to two languages with which he was already familiar—Kernowek and Cymric—which made his task easier.

“Who is Laora?” Gray asked one night, tracing the inscription on the book's flyleaf—
ex libris Laora
—with one finger.

“She was a cousin of my mother's, I believe,” said Sophie. “Many of her books are inscribed so, instead of with her own name; she inherited them, she told me.”

“It was the name of the last queen, the Breton queen; the one who—who had rather an unfortunate end,” he said. “Morvan mentioned her to me, in Kerandraon.”

“Breizhek,” Sophie corrected with a smile; “in Brezhoneg we say
Breizhek
, not
Breton
. It is a common enough name here—perhaps all the little Laoras were named for the Queen? My mother's was Rozenn, and there are at least a dozen little Rozenns among the Professor's tenants.”

It was late, and Sophie was very tired; it must have been for that reason that her eyes suddenly burned with tears.

Gray looked tactfully away and opened the codex to the story they had begun a few nights earlier—the tale of the wasp, the dragonfly, and the spider. “I cannot make out this phrase,” he said, pointing. “It looks like ‘winged needle.'”

By now Sophie had had time to dab at her eyes with the sleeve of her dressing-gown, and her voice was perfectly steady when she said, “That is another name for a dragonfly.”

In Which Sophie Loses Her Temper

If the library
of Callender Hall contained any clue to the Professor's intentions, or to Lord Carteret's ciphers or the identity of the
M
mentioned in the latter's diary, Gray had not succeeded in finding it; nor, so far as his numerous and fervent searches could determine, did the library contain a copy of the
Sapientia Delphi
. Having, at some risk of discovery by Mrs. Wallis and the housemaids, returned to rifle the Professor's study once more and, finding no further evidence of wrongdoing, dared his bedchamber as well with exactly the same result, Gray had not held out much hope of the library in any case.

He had, however, discovered a quick and enthusiastic pupil in Sophie, and there was some small consolation in knowing that for the first time since his arrival at Callender Hall, he could be of genuine use to someone.

One morning after breakfast, when the Professor and Amelia were gone to call upon a neighbour and Gray was balancing on a milking-stool, doing battle with some especially vicious species of beetle for dominion over Pellan's beloved climbing roses, Sophie emerged from the house, carrying in her arms a large codex bound in faded green leather, and took up a station on the bench beneath the rose-arbour.

Gray winced as a dead beetle fell onto a verso page; Sophie, unperturbed, brushed it away.

“Listen to this passage, Gray,” she said. “Gaius Aegidius was rather tiresome in life, I suspect, but this fellow must have been perfectly insufferable!”

Gray granted himself a momentary respite from the beetles to listen. Alas, he recognised the style before she had read a dozen words. “I see you have discovered Xanthus Marinus,” he said.

The beetles, he decided, were much to be preferred; Xanthus Marinus called to mind subjects he had rather not dwell upon.

Gray had received his first-class degree amidst the proud families of his year-mates—Convocation being one of the few days in the year when even female guests are welcomed indiscriminately into the closely guarded preserve of Merlin College—and the resounding absence of his own. In the pocket of his new Mag.B. gown reposed a letter from his sisters, which he had read and reread, taking some comfort from their evident pride in his achievements, but troubled by Jenny's news that she was soon to be married to a wealthy Breton nobleman more than a dozen years her senior.
It is a good match,
she assured him, but Gray, reading between the lines, could see that, thus far at least, the affection was all on one side.

He had begged leave to return home for part of the Long Vac., and received from his father, via his mother, grudging assent to a fortnight's visit. He had been eager to see Jenny and Celia, relieved to learn that George would be from home nearly all the summer; he had pretended quite successfully, he thought, that his father's refusal to speak to him caused him no pain.

Master Alcuin—who, having no wife or children to call him elsewhere, spent most of his time in College, among his books—had called on Gray in his rooms the week after Midsummer. A full circle of the College grounds at last brought him to the point: that Gray, if he was to continue his studies, must do so with some other, more senior tutor.

“You have already learnt much of what I can teach you,” he said.

“Have you a recommendation, then, Magister?” Gray inquired.

“I have several,” said Master Alcuin. “But it does not signify; such decisions are taken by the Registrar, as you well know. You are to study with Appius Callender.”

“That p-p-pompous old—”

“Guard your tongue,” the older man hissed fiercely.

This, as it turned out, was wise counsel indeed, and Gray now rather wished he had better heeded it.

He had approached the first meeting with his graduate tutor with trepidation. With Master Alcuin he had achieved a happy sort of harmony, but while Everard Alcuin was the sort to let the teakettle boil dry or miss dinner in hall because he had become involved in translating some obscure text and lost track of time, Appius Callender's reputation was of an influential man, well connected outside the University.

Their acquaintance did not begin well. Gray, anxious to make a good impression, took care to put on a fresh neck-cloth, straighten his hair, and mend an unaccountable rent in his gown; as a result, however, he was late in presenting himself—by less than a quarter-hour, which Master Alcuin would scarcely have remarked—and the Professor greeted his arrival with a disapproving glare.

“Marshall, is it?” he said, and, consulting a notice from the Registrar, “A student of that reprobate Alcuin's. Of course. Well, Mr. Marshall, you will find that we do things differently here. At the
very
least, a student at your level might be expected to understand the importance of punctuality—do you not agree?”

“Y-y-yes, sir,” said Gray miserably. “I am sorry, sir.”

The two other graduates already seated in the Professor's study were introduced as Henry Taylor and Alfric Woodville. Both were well known to Gray by reputation—Woodville being much in demand as a forger of extraordinary furloughs and letters lamenting the imminent deaths of elderly relatives, and Taylor renowned as a special protégé of Professor Callender's. And both, it transpired, had studied with the Professor since matriculating to Merlin. As the session proceeded, Gray wondered how the latter could endure their sycophantic replies to his every utterance; he soon learnt, however, that such was exactly what the Professor expected—nay, required—of his students.

He had never thereafter, perhaps unfortunately, learnt to march quite in step with Taylor and Woodville.

At a second meeting, Gray had been strenuously interviewed and thoroughly dressed down by his new tutor; despite having recently sat a rigorous set of examinations and passed them with the highest possible honours, he was made to feel inadequately trained and insufficiently well read.

“You have not studied Xanthus Marinus?” the Professor repeated, incredulous.

“X-x-xanthus Marinus?” Gray stammered, riffling through the closely written pages of his memory. What he found, at last, might better have been left unsaid: “D-do not most modern thinkers b-b-believe his ideas to have been superseded by—”

“Ha!” Professor Callender cut him off with a scathing bark of laughter. In a tone Gray later came to know all too well, he said, “You must learn to walk, Mr. Marshall, before you aspire to run.”

Gray had briefly demonstrated his proudest achievement—the flawless and nearly effortless shape-shift—and ventured to note that he could now sustain it for half a day without ill effects. The working which had so impressed his Baccalaureate examiners that, to a man, they rose to their feet and applauded its astonished author, the Professor had at once pronounced
a foolish, frivolous waste of magick
.

“I shall tell you,” Gray said to Sophie, shaking his head irritably as though he could thus erase Appius Callender's contempt, “what there is to be learnt from Xanthus Marinus: that a man of little talent may deprecate in another, achievements which he cannot match himself.”

And Sophie, turning on him that sharply appraising gaze by means of which both she and Joanna occasionally made him feel so thoroughly wrong-footed, said, “The Professor thinks very highly of Xanthus Marinus, I suppose?”

Gray sighed. “If you will come to the library tonight,” he said, “I shall bring you something more worth your trouble.”

*   *   *

Not a se'nnight later, Gray was descending the staircase, bound for his afternoon's labours, when the sound of raised voices drew him to the large drawing-room. He ducked in through the door at the south end of the room just in time to hear Sophie say, “Yes, Father, I did read them. And not only those.”

Father and daughter faced each other squarely at the drawing-room's north end; Sophie's expression was mutinous, the Professor's verging on apoplectic.

“Sophia, these books are deeply unsuitable reading for a young woman,” said the Professor.

“My mother read such books.”

“So she did. You would do well to remember what became of her.”

And what
did
become of her?
wondered Gray.

“I am most surprised at this underhanded behaviour, Sophia,” the Professor went on—and looked it. Evidently he knew his own daughters no better than he knew his students. “Whatever did you mean by it?”

“I meant to
learn
something,” Sophie said, impatient. “Something else than embroidery or dancing, or playing pretty tunes on the pianoforte. I am not a decorative object, Father. I have an intellect, also, and I wish to make good use of it.”

Gray had seldom seen the Professor look more outraged.

“That you should undertake to decide such a matter—I should not have thought it possible for a daughter of mine to be so insolent—and to
me
!” He paused for breath; the codex with which he had been gesticulating also came momentarily to rest, and Gray, dismayed, saw that it was the copy of
De Consolatione Magicæ
that he had given Sophie to restore her faith in scholarship after her encounter with Xanthus Marinus. Had she forgot it in the library? Or been reckless enough to carry it about the house with her when her father was at home?

“And the
foolishness
 . . .” the Professor continued. “Well: I have been too trusting. Henceforth, Sophia, the library doors will be locked at all times, and the keys in my own care, and you shall not speak to Mr. Marshall unless I or one of your sisters is present.”

“Father!”

The Professor gave a great sigh. “I must accept the responsibility,” he said, with exaggerated patience. “I have allowed you unreasonable freedom, and have let a Breton peasant have the raising of you, and this is the consequence. Perhaps it was unwise to allow a person of Marshall's character into my home—”

“I will thank you to leave Mr. Marshall's character out of this!” Sophie cut him off. “I had been reading
unsuitable
books for years before ever I met him. The worst that can be said of Gray is that he has some respect for my intellect.”

For shame!
said a voice in Gray's mind.
Will you let her defend you, and stand silent?
He started forward, determined to say something—anything—in Sophie's defence, but she was speaking again, dark eyes narrowed in her pale face. “What is it you imagine will become of me, if—”

This time the Professor cut her off. “This is all done for your good, Sophia,” he said, “as you will appreciate one day. If you hope ever to quit my home for one of your own, you would do well to learn womanly submission.” He turned sharply and strode out of the drawing-room by the north door, calling for Gwenaëlle to fetch Miss Callender, Mrs. Wallis, and his hat and gloves.

“Amelia!” he was heard to demand. “Where is Morvan with the carriage?” And a moment later, “Mrs. Wallis, Miss Sophia is to be confined to her room until I decide otherwise, and on no account is to be permitted to communicate with Mr. Marshall. I shall deal with both of them tomorrow.”

Gray heard, but did not catch, the housekeeper's murmured reply; he was watching Sophie, who clearly—far from having learnt submission, womanly or otherwise—was consumed with fury. Her hands were clenched into white-knuckled fists; her hair seemed to crackle with energy. Gray could hear her rapid breathing. His every hair rose on end; he struggled for breath in the suddenly airless room, feeling dizzy and sick; there was a roaring in his ears, and dark blots swam before his eyes.

He heard a sort of shimmering, shattering sound; then small sharp pains freckled the right side of his face and neck, his arm, his ribs. Something trickled down his face; he put a hand to his temple and brought it away wet with blood. A breeze, briefly gentle but growing more savage, jostled the potted plants and curios that cluttered the room. The sound came again, and again, louder and louder; at last Gray saw that the drawing-room windows were bursting inward, each more violently than the one before. Sophie, oblivious and rigid with fury, was perfectly aligned with the last, northernmost window when a horrified Gray hurled himself at her, knocking her to the floor. Abruptly the noise ceased and the breeze died away.

In the vast stillness that followed, Gray and Sophie stared at each other in horror.

“You said you had no magick!” he exclaimed. He pulled her against him, clasping her so tightly that he could scarcely breathe.

After a moment he loosed his hold to look down into her face. Her brown eyes were pale and huge with shock, her face the colour of tallow; even her hair looked faded and dull. What manner of magick was this?

“What happened?” she whispered. She touched Gray's cheek, where blood was already drying. “Gray, your face is bleeding. What—”

“Horns of Herne, Sophie, you blew the windows in! If
that
was not magick—”

She blinked up at him. Her gaze followed the sweep of his arm about the room, taking in the windblown furnishings, the shattered glass. She shook her head.

“
You did this
,” he said. “Or your magick did. Has nothing like this ever happened before?”

“Of
course
not!” said Sophie—her voice a little stronger now. “Only in—never when—
no!
My father has always said I have no magick. Surely—surely, if I had, even
he
would—”

Gray looked about him, eyebrows raised.

It was at this moment, of course, that Miss Callender came into the drawing-room.

Gray sprang away from Sophie as if from a hot stove, blushing scarlet. “M-m-miss Callender,” he stammered. “I fear—” But her expression stopped his tongue.

Sophie began to shiver.

For once Miss Callender seemed at a loss for words. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then shut it again, and stood, for what might have been hours, gazing in silence about her ruined drawing-room. Finally she appeared to notice her sister's waxen face and chattering teeth. “Sophia,” she said reprovingly, “you had best go up to bed. You are unwell—perhaps you have taken a chill. Mr. Marshall,
what
have you done to the drawing-room windows?”