Chapter Eight #2
Caleb looked over his shoulder at the clock and said, “Hm,” with mild surprise. The minute hand had begun to spin rapidly around the dial. “That doesn’t seem very safe.”
“Goodness me!” Vanity exclaimed with a nervous laugh.
“It’s stood there for three years,” Lady Ruperta said.
“I can’t see why it would suddenly become dangerous.
” She narrowed her eyes, as if suspecting Amelia or Caleb had crept into the room before dinner to sabotage the clock for some nefarious purpose.
After all, university academics were about as trustworthy as snake oil salesmen, the way they went on about the value of getting an education.
What would the world come to if everyone listened to them?
Well-informed lower classes? But then nobody would want to clean her chamber pot!
“Sometimes the act of recognition can trigger latent magic in an object,” Amelia explained. “We still don’t fully understand why. I shouldn’t worry, though. From what I can see, the clock’s magic is unstable but appears weak. We’re quite—”
“Egad!” Lady Ruperta interjected with a horror that would have been assuaged had she only allowed Amelia to continue. “Nigel! Why did you allow into our house people who can recognize magic and therefore put us in danger?”
“Because you said I have too many antiques,” her husband answered. “You insisted I winnow the collection.”
Lady Ruperta stared what would have been daggers were she not so refined, and that therefore were the salad knife equivalent of angry marital looks.
Sir Nigel merely went on eating his soup.
The atmosphere grew so tense, it needed no magic to make it feel perilous.
Swallowing dryly, Amelia looked across the table to Caleb, but he was smiling with steady reassurance at Vanity, whose eyes had widened anxiously.
Even Throckmorton appeared uncomfortable, although that could have been due to the empty wine carafe in front of him.
“Grimshaw!” Lady Ruperta snapped, making everyone jolt. “Carve the swans!”
Oh God, Amelia thought, and looked instinctively around for an emergency exit.
Suddenly, out of the blue (literally: an azure haze of visible thaumaturgic energy), the clock began ticking so excessively it sounded like a room full of disapproving aunties clicking their tongues. Everyone stared at it nervously.
“Has that happened before?” Caleb asked.
“Never,” Nigel said, his face becoming animated with excitement.
“Will it destroy the fabric of time?” Vanity cried out.
Caleb smiled. “Not with us here to protect you.”
“Oh,” she breathed dreamily, her eyes shining as she gazed upon him.
Caleb rose from his chair and, hands in trouser pockets, strolled over to the clock.
He nudged it with the toe of his shoe, and when that did not cause an explosion devastating the house and surrounding region, he angled his head, inspecting the dial more closely.
“Looks seventeenth century.”
“I think it’s a Cabrier,” Amelia said.
“Yes, here’s his name engraved on the cartouche.” Pausing, he frowned slightly as he searched his thoughts. “Wasn’t it a Cabrier clock that malfunctioned at Windsor Castle, briefly turning Prince Albert into a Christmas tree?”
“Eep!” Vanity squeaked in alarm.
“Don’t worry,” Caleb told her. “This one is making a lot of noise, but I don’t think it has enough magic in it to do something like that.”
“How can you tell?” the girl asked.
“Well, partly because you don’t have any tinsel garlands and sparkly painted balls hanging off you,” he said, making her giggle, “but also due to several more subtle indicators, such as the particular blue shade of the thaumaturgic emissions. The sound of the tick.”
“Whether there’s a bitter smell in the air,” Amelia added. “And most of all—”
“Just a feeling one gets,” she and Caleb chorused.
“A feeling,” Lady Ruperta scoffed. “I certainly hope my plumber doesn’t fix the pipes because of a feeling.”
“Perhaps it’s better to call it an instinct developed after inspecting hundreds of enchanted antiques over the years,” Caleb said.
Lady Ruperta exhaled a sharp, sardonic little breath. “You don’t look old enough to have inspected hundreds of anything.”
He grinned. “I’m a boy wonder. As for this clock, my feeling is that there’s no concern.”
“I concur,” Amelia said. “It appears to be a non-incendiary, low-amplitude device.”
“Low amplitude?” Lady Ruperta asked.
“Only emitting a small amount of energy,” Caleb explained. “I’d say ten thaumaturgic conjures at most.”
“So not much tick for its tock,” Vanity said, and returned to her soup with an air of disappointment.
Sir Nigel, on the other hand, seemed surprisingly anxious for a man who possessed a house full of potentially dangerous antiques. “You’re sure it’s not going to explode, then?” he peeped.
“Quite sure,” Amelia reassured him.
Sir Nigel looked to Caleb.
“Professor Tarrant is correct,” Caleb said with just enough emphasis on Amelia’s title to thrill her, since he could hardly lecture their host on the evils of male chauvinism (although, she mused, that would be one way to get them back to Oxford quickly).
“The clock is unstable but weak. Even if it did explode, the most that would happen would be us all feeling a vague sense of déjà vu. And that’s not very scary—trust me, I’ve experienced it before. We’re quite safe.”
A breath of relief went through the room.
Throckmorton leaned across the table to take the full carafe of wine that was set in front of Sergeant Sheffield.
Grimshaw stepped toward the swan display, carving knife at the ready.
Amelia looked away, all her horrified anticipation of that procedure rushing up again.
Suddenly, a flash of silver light sparked at the edge of her vision.
Then another. The air seemed to throb with a soundless force that reverberated along her every nerve.
Jumping up so fast her chair crashed to the floor, she gestured urgently to the diners. “Everyone out! At once!”
Astonishment stunned the company. But no British person was capable of defying a command made in such a stern, teacherly voice by a woman wearing a knitted gray cardigan, and so mumbling in fright (Vanity and Sir Nigel), annoyance (Lady Ruperta), and frustration at not being able to finish the soup (Throckmorton), they promptly quit their seats and made for the exit.
As he lumbered through the doorway, Throckmorton sneered at Amelia.
“Only here an hour and already making quite the fuss, Tarrant.”
She ignored him, beckoning to Sergeant Sheffield so the man would move faster than a steady march.
Within less than a minute, the room was cleared, even Caleb obeying her without question.
Amelia paused in the doorway, watching the books begin to stir on their shelves as the candlelight, trembling, flushed blue with magic.
“Come on, you,” Caleb said from behind her. Grasping her arm, he pulled her over the threshold and slammed the door shut.
BOOM.