Chapter 1 #3
But death, in its backhanded kindness, had torn that ancient fear from him, even as it had robbed Lady Wythe of her chief support, and Zacharias of the man he had esteemed most in the world.
There was now no reason to put off any quarrel, and Zacharias could not doubt Sir Stephen’s disinterested attachment when his ghost continued to haunt him with such unwelcome persistence.
“Had I remained silent, you would have forgotten your bond,” said Sir Stephen, with an aggravating lack of remorse. “You promised me, you know, that you would not tell her of what happened that night.”
Zacharias shook his head.
“Lady Wythe ought to be told,” he said. “Of all people in this world or the next, she has the best right to know what happened the night you died.”
“If it were only the manner of my death that would be revealed, I should not disagree,” said Sir Stephen.
“But to confide in Maria would be to entrust the details of the Exchange to a member of the laity—a female, no less! You are unpopular enough, Zacharias, not to draw your colleagues’ opprobium upon you by divulging sorcery’s greatest secret. ”
“There can be no question of Lady Wythe’s breaking a confidence,” argued Zacharias.
“The comfort it will give her to know that you are well will be incalculable, and . . . even she must wonder.” His voice dropped, so that only someone possessed of the preternatural hearing of the dead could have heard his next words: “Even she must doubt.”
Sir Stephen was a tall, bluff man, still vigorous despite the grey in his hair.
His broad frame recalled that of a general more than a scholar and sorcerer, but the frank countenance and clear blue eyes concealed an unsuspected shrewdness.
It had been said by his thaumaturgical enemies, half in disapprobation and half in envy, that Sir Stephen ought to have set himself up as a politician: he would not have ended as anything less than Prime Minister.
“Maria, doubt whether you might be a murderer?” cried Sir Stephen with an air of incredulity.
“Never believe it, Zacharias! Because she knew Nurse’s authority must not be questioned, she would pretend to credit the stories of your wickedness, but when punishment had been dealt and you were borne off bawling to the nursery, what dark suspicions Maria raised then!
What aspersions cast upon poor Nurse Haddon’s probity!
‘She was not certain Nurse understood Zacharias. He never meant to be naughty. Such a nature as his needed only patience and affection to govern it.’ It would take more than the whisperings of a parcel of ill-bred magicians to shake her faith in you. ”
But nursery reminiscences would not do. Zacharias’s countenance wore a stubborn look with which Sir Stephen was intimately familiar.
So had Zacharias frowned when he was four, and did not wish to eat his porridge.
So he looked now, twenty years later, when prevented from doing what he believed to be right.
“I might be persuaded to release you from your promise, if you agreed to tell Maria of your complaint,” said Sir Stephen. “She might be able to help relieve your distress.”
“My complaint is not such as any mortal can remedy,” said Zacharias, but he said no more.
His battle was lost, as Sir Stephen knew it would be the moment he referred to Zacharias’s illness.
That was an aspect of the secret of Sir Stephen’s death that Zacharias would not willingly speak of, however highly he valued honesty.
Zacharias proceeded to busy himself with preparations for the next day’s work, as though he had not already begun to feel unwell—a pretence that would not have deceived Sir Stephen even before he possessed the intuition of the dead.
“Does it hurt you much?” said Sir Stephen.
“Not much,” said Zacharias. This line of inquiry made him uneasy, and when he spoke again it was to divert the conversation:
“Do you have any notion what Edgeworth desires of me on Wednesday?”
It was not necessary to explain to Sir Stephen anything that had happened, now that he hovered between the mortal and celestial realms. He seemed to know every detail of Zacharias’s days as well as Zacharias did himself.
“I expect he will want a spell,” said Sir Stephen.
“It will be some outrageous overturning of nature that he wants—a tripling of the Navy’s ships, or the undoing of some military reversal.
The Government can never ask for a simple chantment—an illumination, say, or a glamour to enable Members of Parliament to doze unnoticed in the Commons. ”
“I shall have to decline to assist, then,” said Zacharias. He paused, glancing sideways at Sir Stephen. “What ought I to say to him? The Government has habitually overestimated our powers, but it cannot be wished that it should be disabused of its notions of our abilities.”
“No, indeed!” said Sir Stephen. “No monarch has ever liked a sorcerer, and it is only wariness of how we might revenge ourselves for any incivility that has kept our Government in line. It is a delicate point, and will require finesse.”
But he cast a knowing look at Zacharias, who had assumed an ingenuous air of attention.
“Very well!” said Sir Stephen. “You know I like nothing so well as to be asked my opinion. But mark, Zacharias, your reprieve is but temporary. I shall not forget our quarrel!”