Chapter 24
GEORGIANA WITHOUT RUTH had been having a lovely day.
She had passed the morning in visits, gossiping and testing her wits (and in one case, her claws) against her friends and enemies.
She had then engaged in some light exercise, hunting down her dinner—a white hart with a blood-red star on its forehead, which wailed in a human voice as she devoured it.
Since creatures of like strangeness were so often to be found in the forests of Fairy as to have lost all their novelty, this impaired her appetite not a jot, and Georgiana returned to her cave in an excellent humour.
She curled up on her hoard of gold, but as she was about to float away on billows of sleep, she was rudely torn from her slumbers.
The geas laid upon her could not be gainsaid. The spell was devilishly well constructed, and despite all her efforts Georgiana was borne irresistibly along by it, hurtling along secret ways across the worlds, growing crosser and crosser with each unwilling wingbeat.
The originators of the enchantment had not even bothered to disguise their identities, and by the time Georgiana descended upon Lyme Regis, she had prepared some rich words for Paget Damerell and that upstart Sorcerer Royal.
She would not quietly endure the insult of being summoned to attend to a magician’s pleasure, as though she were any trumpery fairy or slubberdegullion spirit, so greedy for power that it was willing to pledge itself to a mere mortal.
Oh no! They would soon discover why she was named Without Ruth.
The sight that greeted her upon her arrival was sufficiently appalling to distract her from her wrongs, however.
“Lorelei,” she trumpeted, “do I indeed find you in a tantrum? For shame! To be two thousand years old and still so naughty!”
Mrs. Midsomer’s churning tail ceased its operations with comical abruptness. The whirlpool it was working up died down abruptly. The mists veiling her form were blown away by a gust of wind, and the sun shone out of the clouds, illumining her abashed countenance.
“Cousin Georgiana!” she exclaimed. “I—I thought you never visited the mortal realm.”
“That shows how much you know,” said Georgiana snappishly. “I come and go as I wish. You surely did not think I was subject to the Court’s restrictions upon travel?”
“Oh no, no,” said Mrs. Midsomer. She had already begun to shrink.
“Put a stop to this rain, for pity’s sake,” said Georgiana. “I have just had my scales polished, and the wet will ruin my shine. Pray, who has permitted this thunder-monster to run amuck?”
“I have not run amuck,” said the thunder-monster peevishly. “I am only trying to murder this sea-woman, so that I may go to sleep again. I should be happy to wash my hands of the business if the sorceress would only release me.”
“Well, never mind this sorceress, whoever she is, but go away,” said Georgiana. “You will not soon kill Lorelei. If it were as easy as all that, one of her relations would certainly have pipped you to the post. I beg you will not try to argue. I do not at all like the taste of an elemental.”
The thunder-monster faded out of existence, muttering imprecations. An outraged Prunella opened her mouth to object, but she was quelled by a glare from Zacharias.
“As for you, Lorelei, it was all very well for you to make mischief while the Queen was away, but what do you think she will say to your antics when she returns?” continued Georgiana. “Was that a mortal town on the shore? And now it is nothing but a bundle of sticks and damp sand!”
“Oh, you will not tell her!” cried Mrs. Midsomer.
“It was never much of a town anyway—spinsters contriving on a hundred pounds a year, and sixpence assemblies. Besides, I acted upon the purest of motives. I was wreaking vengeance for my dear Leofric. Perhaps”—a touch of acid tinged her voice—“you do not recall Leofric?”
“Everyone knew you called off the engagement, so spare me your airs, I beg,” said Georgiana.
“You were not overly broken up when he left for the mortal world. Why, scarce a fortnight had passed before you were parading your new mortal beau about, though he did not long survive the expiry of your affections! I should tread carefully if I were you,” she added as an aside to Midsomer.
“But that was before I heard the news,” protested Mrs. Midsomer. “Then I knew I had never loved anyone so well, and never would again. Only then, when I finally knew what I had lost, I swore to revenge myself upon the mortal who could so cruelly betray him.”
“You cannot have loved him so well if you have not even troubled to discover what he is about now,” said Georgiana.
“Mamma never approved of necromancy,” said Mrs. Midsomer, with dignity. “She thought it a low habit, fit only for ghouls and mortals.”
“Necromancy indeed!” said Georgiana. “From the way you go on, one would almost think Leofric was dead.”
Mrs. Midsomer stared at her. “But he is!”
Georgiana had turned her attention to the damp, shivering thaumaturges on the Cobb, however.
“What have you to say in your defence, interrupting the slumbers of an old female for such a trifle? If you could not put up with Lorelei’s freaks you ought not to have brought her over the border. She has a tantrum regular, once every other day, and twice on Sundays.”
Damerell said, “I do not understand you, ma’am. I see no old female here—only a queen among dragons, ageless and eternal, of matchless elegance and unsurpassed majesty.”
“We apologise for our temerity in calling you,” said Zacharias.
“But we were in desperate straits, and you seemed the only person who would be able to influence Mrs. Midsomer. We hoped you would be so good as to condescend to exert your influence on our behalf, and persuade Mrs. Midsomer to listen to our explanation.”
Georgiana snorted, but she had always had a soft spot for Damerell, who was looking up at her with unmistakable admiration. His flattery had the desired effect.
“She will listen, though much good will it do you,” said Georgiana. “A more obdurate creature than Lorelei I never knew. However, you will attend, Lorelei, and discover what became of your precious Leofric—not that you were very kind to the poor fellow before he left Fairy.”
“You believe I killed Leofric, is that correct?” said Zacharias.
He turned to the Presiding Committee, who stood in a soggy huddle, stunned by the storm, and staring in dull amaze at Georgiana Without Ruth.
“And I stand accused before you of having, on the same night, murdered my guardian, my mentor and manumitter, Sir Stephen Wythe.
“I have not sought to deny the accusations before, knowing that those who wished to believe them would do so even in the absence of evidence, and not wishing to discuss what was so painful to me. But I did not kill Sir Stephen. Nor did I kill Leofric. How could I have encompassed such a design, even supposing I were so unfeeling as to desire to injure my protector? Sir Stephen was the Sorcerer Royal, Leofric a familiar of great power and cunning, and I was but a journeyman thaumaturge. I was wholly unequipped to do battle with either of them and survive unscathed, much less defeat them.”
“You ate Leofric, of course,” spat Mrs. Midsomer. “You need not think you will fool me so easily! I see his mark upon you. Your every enchantment smells of him. Oh, I know you have devoured him, poor Leofric—”
“And he has devoured me,” said Zacharias.
This put a stopper on Mrs. Midsomer’s rant. She gaped at him. Georgiana chuckled.
Damerell said, in the voice of a man enlightened, “Ah!”
“What do you mean?” cried Midsomer, but his wife spoke over him.
“Leofric lives?” she said. She placed her webbed hand on her heart, her eyes blazing. “Tell me.”
Zacharias told her. It was the first time he had spoken to any living person of the night Sir Stephen died.
· · ·
Alog had tumbled out of the grate. It sat, charred and smoking, by the carpet, and Zacharias knelt to retrieve it. He thought Sir Stephen had nodded off over his work, his familiar’s head resting upon his shoulder.
Sir Stephen was growing older, loath as they both were to admit it.
He worked as hard as ever, travelling tirelessly between worlds and passing long evenings in his study, but there was no escaping the fact that he no longer possessed all the vigour of his youth.
It was not uncommon for Zacharias to walk into Sir Stephen’s study to find him drowsing over his papers.
Zacharias did what he could to relieve his burden.
There was still considerable discontent within the Society over his appointment as Sir Stephen’s secretary.
Every unnatural philosopher in London had a son or nephew they believed better suited for the role than a charity case plucked from a slave ship.
But Zacharias was to ignore all such murmurs, said Sir Stephen. “We understand each other,” he said. “Such confidence exists between us, as makes you more useful to me than any sorcerer’s son could be.”
Zacharias had his own doubts as to the perfection of their mutual understanding. Sir Stephen had grand ambitions for Zacharias—fine visions of his future, for which he had been preparing the ground since Zacharias was a child.
But Zacharias knew himself to be unfitted for public life by both disposition and inclination.
The role of secretary to Sir Stephen suited him perfectly, for it comprised what was, in his judgment, the most interesting parts of the work of the Sorcerer Royal: research, the invention of new formulae, and the working out of technical problems presented by the Government and the Society, all carried out with minimal intercourse with the outside world.