CHAPTER SIX
bout seven hours earlier, in the Guild’s towering castle inA Northumberland, Luke Larsen, highly respected scholar of magical history and considerably less respected caretaker of one very determined witch, had been having a fiasco of a day. Week. Month, even.
Over the last few weeks, between endless battles over funding, tortuous bureaucracy, and far too little of the work he actually liked, Luke had had to, in short: retrieve his sister from the roof of the Guild’s greenhouse, track her down in the gigantic hedge maze, rescue the threeother children she’d stranded halfway up a wall of ivy after inadvertently including them in her levitation spell, and explain to his employer that the reason her ornamental ginkgo tree was bare was because Posy had appropriated its leaves.
And those, it had to be said, were just the highlights.
While it was tempting to lay the blame at Posy’s door for her obsession with leaves, or even at Mother Nature’s for having the temerity toinvent leaves, Luke was only too aware thathe was the one who had brought his small, impulsive, autistic sister to stay at the Guild’s estate, a place
of rules, decorum, and one too many disapproving gargoyles roaming its hallowed halls.
Which brought Luke to today, and the entirely unwelcome presence of one of the gargoyles in question.
“This,” said Bradford Bertram-Mogg, materialising beside Luke with the air of a horseman of the apocalypse and scowling up at Posy, who was nimbly pirouetting on the very edge of a balcony in her quest to reach a particular leaf on a vine, “is what comes of allowing foreigners into the Guild.”
“Not that it should make any difference, but we’re
Scottish,” Luke said coldly.
“Exactly,” said Bertram-Mogg.
Of the Guild’s predominantly ancient and intolerable ruling Cabinet, Bradford Bertram-Mogg was by far the most ancient and very nearly the most intolerable, an anachronistic and malevolent old man who looked like he had one foot in the grave already.
Luke, for one, couldn’t wait for the rest of him to catch up.
“Posy, get down here,” Luke said for the third time, trying to ignore the harbinger of doom beside him.
She replied with a definitive shake of her head.
“Yes,” Luke insisted.
Another, crosser shake of the head. She even stamped one foot to make doubly sure he’d noticed her displeasure.
Luke wasn’t actually afraid she’d tumble off the balcony because Posy, at just nine years old, had the agility of an Olympic gymnast, the evasive talents of Houdini, and, if all else failed, a brother whose magic could keep her from falling.This time. But what about next time? He wasn’t with her every second of every day. He needed her to understand that heights and small children, even small witch children, were not a happy combination.
Of course, therein lay the rub. Posy didn’t, orcouldn’t, understand. She could figure out the best way in and out of a hedge maze in seconds, but she could not fathom the concept of an obstacle like personal safety. For her, it was a simple matter of “there is a thing I want, so I will go get that thing,” and it was incomprehensible to her that there might be a reason not to.
This, however, was incomprehensible to other people. No matter how many times Luke explained that Posy wasn’t trying to be difficult or defiant, nobody else seemed to see it that way. Not even their own parents, whose oft-used argument was “but you had some peculiar habits as a young child too, andyou grew out of them.”
“Stop calling them peculiar habits,” Luke would reply.
“She’s autistic.”
“You coddle her.”
And repeat.
“What do you intend to do about this?” Bertram-Mogg inquired now, waving a hand in Posy’s direction. “And I am not referring to this precise situation, young man, but rather to the veritable cornucopia of discord that awaits us if we continue down this brambly path.”
As the Scottish son of an English father and a Danish mother, both of whom were professors of classical studies at Edinburgh University, Luke had been fluent in six languages before he was a teenager. Insufferable Toff, alas, was not one of them.
“If you have something to say, just say it. In small words, ideally, seeing as I come from a strange, foreign land a whole fifty miles away.”
The old gargoyle harrumphed. “The crux of the matter is that that child has no idea how to behave! How old is she?
Eight? Nine? Does she even know how to read?”
“I don’t know. Nobody does. She hasn’t done anything to suggest she can, but I’m not going to assume—”
“She just put aleaf in her mouth!”
“She has sensory—”
“In my day, we knew how to deal with things like that,”
Bertram-Mogg informed him.
Luke’s temper kicked at the iron battlements that kept it tightly confined, but as ever, the battlements won. Posy might wear her heart on her sleeve, but Luke did not, so his voice remained cold and expressionless. “Then it’s just as
well your day is over.”
“Well, I never—!”
Luke ignored him. “Now, Posy.”
Recognising that that particular tone meant she had lost the battle, Posy jumped off the balcony, blithely confident he would find a way to catch her. (He did, but that wasn’t the point.) There was a collection of leaves clutched in one of her fists, and she tucked her free hand into his and said,
“Car.”
“No. We’re not leaving yet.”
“Car,” Posy repeated.
“Not yet. Sorry.”
Rounding the side of the tower, they entered a round, cobbled courtyard with a stone fountain in the middle. There were a handful of visitors’ cars parked in the courtyard, and the fountain, which was dry as bone, was topped with an old, cracked stone statue of three witches: Meg of Meldon, Michael Scot, and Mother Shipton.
The castle towered over the courtyard, complete with flying buttresses, mullioned windows, and spires. Luke strode up the front steps, Posy in tow. Inside, people were crisscrossing the huge entrance hall, ascending flights of stairs or passing through the tall archway ahead on their
way somewhere else. As always, all conversation was pitched politely, decorously low. (“Like a museum,” Bradford Bertram-Mogg had once said, to which Luke’s employer, Professor Walter, had replied, “Yes, specifically those museums where they store the corpses of the deceased. I believe they’re called tombs.”) Luke had been eighteen years old the first time he’d come here, and all things considered, thank fucking Christ he’d been as old as that. As a child with absolutely no magical history in the family and an unremarkable amount of magical power, he wouldn’t have stood a chance.
Levitating in one’s sleep was almost always the way a witch’s magic first manifested itself. Luke had been just shy of his seventh birthday when the startled cries of his parents had woken him from what he’d thought was a perfectly normal night’s sleep. He’d crashed into his bed, realising only then that he must have beenabove it in order to crash into it, and all three of them had stared at each other in disbelief.
When it had happened a second time, and then a third, Luke’s parents had taken him to the family GP. Hushed conversations, psychiatric referrals, and home visits from two nurses had led to a final, decidedly clandestine visit from a woman who had introduced herself as a witch from the British Guild of Sorcery. Later, Luke had learned that there were people working in the NHS, schools, and government whose job was to spot these signs in children, notify the Guild, and smooth things over with everyone who was not in the know.
The Guild witch had been polite but aloof, as if she wasn’t thrilled about having to be there, and everything she’d said had seemed to actively discourage Luke from inflicting his unpedigreed presence on the precious darlings already
taking lessons at the estate. Upon discovering that an alternative to going to the Guild’s grand estate in Northumberland was studying magic on his own time at home, with access to as many books as he needed from the Guild’s library, and the only requirements of him being that he had to keep secrets, send in progress letters once a month, and never use his power in public, Luke had immediately said, “Yes, that. That’s what I want to do.”
He’d never expected to grow up and spend so much time within these walls, but navigating the Guild as an adult was far less intimidating than doing it as a child, and he wouldn’t have brought Posy here if he’d been able to think of literally anywhere better.
Five minutes and two spiral staircases later, Luke and Posy crossed the third storey of the library to the nook Professor Walter had claimed as her own, where the lady herself stood beside a table strewn with old maps, documents, and books, gazing into the distance with a furrowed brow.
“There you are, old chap!” a voice boomed from the other side of the nook. “Good God, you look absolutely knackered!
It’s just as well I popped by with a nice pot of tea!”
Howard Hawtrey, Cabinet Minister and scion of an old magical family. He was in his early forties, rotund, and always inexplicably jolly, like a very posh Santa. Against all odds, he was one of very few people in the upper echelons of the Guild that Luke actually liked.
Luke settled Posy in an armchair with her tablet, her fluffy headphones, and a biscuit off Howard’s tray. Howard poured tea into three cups and said, “You take yours black,
don’t you?”
“As my heart,” said Luke.
Howard slapped his knee and laughed way more than the joke deserved. “I was just asking Professor Walter if she’s planning to attend Bradford Bertram-Mogg’s winter masquerade this year.”
“There’s no easy way to break this to you, Howard, but she would sooner die. She would welcome death with open arms if the alternative was to go to Bradford Bertram- Mogg’s winter masquerade.”
“That seems a tad pigheaded,” Howard pointed out, not unreasonably. “It can’t possibly be true, can it, Professor?”
“Why doesn’t he ever stop talking?” Professor Walter asked Luke in a beleaguered tone of voice.
“Tea?” Howard said at once, delighted to have her attention at last.
“Only if it’s been steeped in the thrice-blessed waters of Elysium.”
“What she meant to say was yes, and thank you,” Luke said to Howard. Over the last sixteen years, he had ascended from a rare, coveted spot as one of Professor Walter’s apprentices to very nearly her scholarly equal and was, therefore, the only person alive who dared remind her of pedestrian concerns like manners.
Verity Walter was a brilliant historian, an exacting instructor, and, in her own words, a walking, talking funhouse mirror the Guild didn’t particularly enjoy catching a glimpse of themselves in. She was fiftyish, had short grey hair and a deep voice, only ever wore tweed and riding boots in spite of having never been within ten feet of a horse, chomped on the end of a pipe that she never actually smoked, enunciated her syllables with more cutting precision than any monarch of England, and was so committed to the act that even Luke had never seen her out of character (though every now and then, he thought he heard a bit of
Suffolk creep back into her voice when she spoke to her sister on the phone). Her family had just enough magic in it to be considered reputable but not so much that they were considered important, which meant the respect (and terror) she inspired in everybody who knew her had very little to do with pedigree and a whole lot more to do with her talent, work ethic, and disinclination to accept any nonsense.
“Isn’t Posy supposed to be in school when you’re working?” she asked now, observing that there was a child curled up in one of the armchairs with enormous fluffy headphones over her ears. “Is this why you look like you haven’t slept since the heyday of the Ottoman Empire?”
“You have such a marvellous way of putting things,”
Howard swooned.
Verity ignored him. “By the way, if you saw a fox in the library on your way out last night, you didn’t.”
“I didn’t,” Luke agreed.
“Very good, Luke. That’s very convincing.”
“No, I really didn’t. Should I have?”
“No,” said Verity at once.
Luke looked at Howard, who was contentedly sipping his tea. “Really? You have no questions at all?”
“Too exhausting, old bean,” said Howard cheerfully.
“While we’re sharing things,” said Luke, turning back to his redoubtable employer, “I hope you aren’t counting on Bradford Bertram-Mogg’s vote for any funding at the moment, because I’m pretty sure I poked the old gargoyle in the eye.”
“In a literal sense?” Verity asked, looking happier than
Luke had ever seen her.
“No,” said Luke.
“I suppose this meansyou’re not coming to the winter masquerade either,” said Howard gloomily. “And don’t say
you were never planning to in the first place.”
“I was never planning to.”
“Damn it, Luke! I just said don’t say it!”
“Even if Ihad been about to apply for additional funding, I would never have counted on that walking cadaver’s vote,”
Verity reminded Luke. “He doesn’t so much as scratch his nose without Albert Grey’s permission, and we all know how he feels about me. He didn’t even want me to have you! I had to get a private grant to pay your wage!”
“Well, you’re always saying you don’t want us to be beholden to them.” Luke shrugged.
But Verity was on a roll. Having polished her tea off in a single, efficient gulp, she seized her pipe and clamped it between her teeth. “The Guild has never been perfect, but Albert Grey has all but ruined it. The sooner we can throw him and that entire spineless Cabinet in the bin, the better.”
“I’m in that Cabinet,” Howard protested.
Verity gave him a puzzled look, like she either had no idea who he was or had no idea why it ought to matter whether or not she threw him in the bin. As most of her interactions with Howard involved the words “my friends call me Verity. You may call me Professor Walter,” Luke thought it was probably both.
“I have yet to decide how I feel about the new Chancellor,” Verity went on. “The ghastly, nepotistic antiques surrounding her, however, are another matter.”
“Nepotistic!” Howard cried, apparently decidingthat was the descriptor he objected to most. “The Cabinet is democratically elected!”
“Does he actually believe that?” Verity asked Luke, but didn’t wait for an answer before moving on. “So if you didn’t actually take out his eye, whatdid you do to Bertram- Mogg?”
“I told him it’s a good thing his day is over.”
“Is that all? I say far worse things to him at least twice a week.”
“How did you say it?” Howard wanted to know. “Did you, er, raise your voice?”
“Of course not. I was completely, unshakeably calm.”
“Ah,” said Howard, wincing.
“I see,” said Verity.
Luke sighed. “What?”
“Er,” Howard floundered, flustered. “The thing is, um, well, sometimes what you think is you being calm can sometimes, er, come across as, er…”
“Arctic,” said Verity succinctly. “Antarctic, even.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Howard objected loyally, but Luke only shrugged, unbothered.
Verity gave her pipe an emphatic chomp. “It’s a compliment. You know how I feel about drama.” She glanced down at a translation she’d been working on, scratched out a word and scribbled something else, and looked back up. “You still haven’t told me why Posy’s not with one of the governesses. And yes, if you’re curious, I am indeed cringing at the fact that I have just had to unironically use the word governesses.”
“She absconded again,” Luke said. “I’m not even sure I blame her because, as we’ve established,governesses. I
think it’s time I took her home.”
“Whose home?” Howard asked.
“Hers, obviously.”
“Your parents’ house? At the university?”
“My flat is the size of a shoebox, so yes, our parents’ house.”
“You brought her here because shecouldn’t stay there, old chap,” Howard reminded him somewhat unnecessarily.
“You said she’d started using her magic in front of other people because she doesn’t understand she has to hide it.”
“And I hoped this would be the one place that wouldn’t matter,” Luke agreed, looking over to make sure Posy still had her headphones on. (She did, and seemed to be absorbed in a game involving tucking farm animals into bed.) “As the last month has proven, though, all I’ve done is swap one set of rules Posy can’t follow for another.”
Apparently at a loss, Howard resorted to appealing to Verity. “Don’t you think Luke ought to stay?”
Verity had once again been gazing into the distance with a furrowed brow, but she turned abruptly back to them and
said, “No, I don’t. He should go.”
“Well, fuck you too,” said Luke mildly.
This was too much for poor Howard, who let out a piteous, scandalised whimper.
Verity chuckled. “Much as I like having you at my beck and call seven days a week, may I refer you back to the part about you looking like you haven’t slept since the siege of Carthage?”
“I thought you said it was the Ottoman…” Quailing at the look she gave him, Howard wisely abandoned the rest of his sentence.
“Setting aside my opinion that you are Posy’sbrother, her well-being is not your responsibility, and your parents are a disgrace,” Verity said to Luke, pulling, as ever, not one single punch, “I think the best course of action is a break.”
“A break,” Luke echoed.
“Yes. Take your sister to a quiet spot by the sea and do nothing for a few days.”
With absolutely perfect timing, Posy took off her headphones, put her tablet down, and came over to squeeze herself into the tiny gap between Luke’s arm and his torso. It
was her usual way of letting him know she just wanted a warm, quiet moment, but this time, she also pointed at the nearest window and said, again, “Car.”
“I rest my case,” Verity said with great satisfaction.
“And I suppose you have an opinion on where we ought to go too.”
“Er,” said Verity. “Er, yes. I do. You should go to my weekend cottage in, er, Lytham St. Annes.”
Luke gave her a long, sharp look. “You hate people who
have weekend cottages.”
“I’ve never said that.”
“You absolutely have,” said a very bewildered Howard.
“It was just last month that you told Eustace Cholmondeley that anyone who acquires more property than they need to live in is a twa—”
“Good God, you’re a nuisance,” Verity snapped. She stomped to her computer, seized the mouse, and clicked aggressively until she reached the page she was looking for.
She turned the screen around to face Luke and jabbed a finger at it. “There. A cottage by the sea. Go forth.”
“Verity, there isn’t a universe in which I believe that’s your cottage.”
“Fine, it’s my cousin’s,” she said in great irritation. “Just go, would you?”
Howard examined the little red pin on the map. “Isn’t that in Lancashire? Is there something else in Lancashire? Why
does Lancashire ring a bell?”
“Get out of my library,” said Verity.
“It’s not your—”
“OUT!”
