Chapter 5 #3
Not that she gave a fig what the Sorcerer Royal thought.
Only it was provoking to have looked so bedraggled before such a very handsome young gentleman.
(Prunella saw now what had lent Henrietta such fire in arguing her cause against Clarissa’s.
A single dinner party would quite suffice to make any susceptible young lady fall desperately in love with a gentleman as beautiful and melancholy as Mr. Wythe.)
“Bother those attics!” she said.
But in a moment Prunella had forgotten all about Mr. Wythe, for her own words reminded her of the attic she had been cleaning. In that large, cold, cluttered room sat a piece of old tarpaulin—and under it, a certain valise.
· · ·
THE valise could not conveniently be hidden under her arm or her dress, so Prunella ran all the way from the attics down to her room. Her pulse beat high in her throat, though no one was about.
“It is not theft,” she thought. “Not truly theft, if it is really my father’s.” If it was not her father’s valise she would return it to the attic, of course, but the only way she might find out was by looking into it.
In her bedroom she dragged a chair over to the door. Having secured herself as much privacy as was possible for her, she opened the valise, sneezing as the dust flew from its surface.
How odd she felt! But hexes always excited the stomach. She was not nervous about what she might find within the valise. Like as not it was not her father’s at all, and had nothing of interest in it. Indeed, why should she care if it was her father’s, since she had never known him?
Despite these brave prophylactics against disappointment, Prunella was inclined to be crestfallen when she drew out of the valise a sheaf of old papers—newspapers and torn receipts, of no account.
But the next thing was a worn old journal, bearing the name Hilary Reuel Gentleman, proving she was no thief—and then a black velvet pouch, which promised to be of even greater interest.
Still, this was so little that when she had emptied the valise she overturned it and shook it out, to make sure she had missed nothing. Something clinked on the floor, and would have rolled away into the darkness under the bed if Prunella had not caught it.
It was a small, heavy silver ball, engraved all over with intricate curlicues and dots.
Among the swooping strokes and flourishes could be discerned the occasional exotic flower and animal, represented in miniature.
Strange hues gleamed upon its surface: first it was silver, but then it was illuminated by a purple light, then green, then blue, the colours following each other in quick succession.
The weight of the ball in her palm seemed curiously disproportionate to its size. It felt as though it contained a great deal more than could be encompassed by anything so small.
“Perhaps it is a locket,” said Prunella, and set about prying it open, but there was not a join or gap to be found upon it. After some fruitless striving she surrendered the attempt.
She looked at the journal, but decided to leave it to the side for the moment, though she would not admit even to herself why she avoided it.
“Doubtless it would take a vast time to puzzle out”—(letters were not Prunella’s strong point)—“most likely it is nothing worth reading—scribbles about his day, and what he ate, and what the weather was like.”
The black velvet pouch seemed safer, and Prunella harboured a faint hope that it might contain jewels, or perhaps gold guineas. It was nothing of the sort, however. She poured out upon her palm seven blue stones.
“This is my treasure!” she exclaimed. “A trinket, seven stones, a bundle of old papers, and a journal! Mrs. Daubeney need hardly begrudge me such an inheritance.”
There was nothing for it: she must look into the journal now, while she had leisure to examine her find. Prunella opened the book and smoothed its pages, with hands that did not shake—and even if they did, it did not signify, for no one saw her.
Though her lips moved as she read, and it was necessary for her to rely upon the aid of a finger to trace the lines, she was soon engrossed.
The owner had only used about ten pages, filling them with scattered notes.
But he had preserved letters within the leaves of the journal, and stray pieces of paper upon which he had copied out what seemed to be quotes from books—books on magic.
There was enough to keep Prunella occupied for several hours. When she finally looked up from the journal, it was almost time for the Sorcerer Royal’s speech. She was stiff and cold.
Prunella took out the stones again, noting the trembling of her hands with a philosopher’s detachment. She shivered partly from the cold, but partly, too, from what she had learnt. It seemed strange that she should still be the same Prunella, possessed of the same chapped hand.
The stones looked as obdurately dull as ever, save for their colour. They were a pure, pale blue like robins’ eggs, but veined with gold.
“What Mrs. D will say when I tell her!” said Prunella. Her laughter rang out, bell-like, in the stillness of the room.