Chapter 6
ZACHARIAS WOULD NEVER make a sensation as an orator, but luckily his speech for Mrs. Daubeney’s gentlewitches did not require any great oratory from him.
He congratulated the young ladies on their good fortune in being educated at such a school, under the auspices of such a Mrs. Daubeney.
He elaborated upon the perils to the fairer sex of venturing into the rarefied realms of thaumaturgy, and praised the instructresses who laboured to prevent his audience’s meeting that dreadful fate.
Even as he recited the conventional objections to women’s magic, however, Zacharias was mulling over the arguments in favour of it.
He had been struck by the scene in the classroom.
The spells Miss Gentleman had cast had been crude enough, but they had appeared to be of her own devising, and spoke of skill startling in an untrained female.
That she had contrived to juggle such a number of enchantments while under attack, and in such infelicitous conditions as obtained in that room of weeping girls, was impressive.
But could female ability be any argument for encouraging women to exercise it?
Surely feminine magic must be curbed, magic being so peculiarly detrimental to women’s delicate frames.
Besides, magic was too hard to come by in these days for it to be frittered away in women’s frivolities—ballgowns and christening gowns and gowns of other descriptions.
Yet the moment this thought passed through Zacharias’s mind, his conscience presented the image of Lady Wythe as a counterpoint.
Anyone less likely to waste magic in fripperies was impossible to imagine—unless it were the cooks, maids, charwomen, herbwives, and other females of the lower classes, who were permitted to practise their craft in peace, because they employed it for the benefit of their betters.
For that matter, what could be more wasteful than the manner in which the heedless young members of the Theurgist’s amused themselves? Magical fireworks and talking reflections were the least of their extravagances.
At this juncture, Zacharias’s speech and (somewhat more to his irritation) his thoughts were interrupted by a disturbance in the audience. A small crowd formed around a girl who had fainted.
When Zacharias approached he found Miss Gentleman kneeling by the girl, trying to revive her by the application of sal volatile. Mrs. Daubeney waved him away.
“Pray do not be concerned, Mr. Wythe!” she said. “Such a to-do over a trifle! The silly girl ought to have known she was permitted to suspend her exercises today.”
“It was instead of lines,” said a pale maiden. “Olivia said she would rather chant the Seven Shackles all day than look at another line. She had lines yesterday for impertinence, and then today she was late to breakfast.”
“Is the young lady unwell?” said Zacharias. “If her indisposition is connected to magic, I beg you will permit me to examine her.”
“It is nothing to do with magic—quite the contrary,” said Mrs. Daubeney, who would have been most grateful if Zacharias had had the decency to remove himself from the scene.
“A little faintness is a natural consequence of the Seven Shackles. The girls are told never to do it but on a full stomach. I suppose the silly creature missed her breakfast, but insisted on continuing with the exercise even during your speech, so that it would be finished sooner. Olivia never can take thought for the future.”
“Oh, but she was,” said Prunella. “She must have been thinking of plum pudding at dinner today—the Seven Shackles during dinner would quite ruin her appetite. And there is the excursion tomorrow, that Miss Mortimer promised her class. If Olivia had postponed the exercise, she should have been too ill to go.”
“But what is this exercise?” said Zacharias, who was appalled by the unconscious girl’s appearance. Her countenance was bloodless, her lips blue, and her chest barely moved with her breath.
“My dear Mr. Wythe, do not you know? The Seven Shackles are quite the finest innovation of our age!” cried Mrs. Daubeney. “I make sure to have our girls practise it regularly, and it has a most salutary effect.”
“I have never heard of it in my life,” said Zacharias. “And you will allow me to say, Mrs. Daubeney, that I hope never to hear of anything like it, if this is its effect!”
“Mr. Wythe likely knows it under another name,” said Prunella, apparently addressing Mrs. Daubeney. “You know, ma’am, that it is based upon Pobjoy’s taking.”
“Pobjoy’s taking?” If Zacharias had been alarmed before, now he was horrified. “But that is a killing curse! It has been prohibited by the Society for hundreds of years, for its effect of draining magic from its victims.”
“But there can be nothing wrong in the girls’ doing it to themselves, you know, for it is not as though they inflict it upon anyone else,” said Mrs. Daubeney eagerly.
“Besides, you must not mislead Mr. Wythe, Prunella. It is not quite Pobjoy’s taking, but an adaptation by one of our mistresses.
The Seven Shackles only cause a mild enervation, which need not lead to any lasting damage if proper precautions are taken.
When it has drained the girls’ magic, it releases it into the air, counteracting the general decline.
So you see it is a most ingenious device! ”
“Most ingenious! A curse I would not put upon my worst enemy!” said Zacharias.
“But I do not know why there should be any objection,” said Mrs. Daubeney, in tears.
“It is only a little inconvenience—nothing to speak of—and in consequence the girls are preserved from magic, and magic preserved for thaumaturgy. Why, I wrote of the Seven Shackles to Lord Burrow, and he commended the practise. He said it is just what the country needs!”
“She is waking up!” exclaimed Prunella. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Olivia. You have frightened everyone out of their wits. Let us get you to bed, and never worry about the plum pudding, for you may be sure Cook will save you a piece.”
Zacharias reined in his indignation. He had no wish to distract attention from the girl.
“You are quite right,” he said, his voice as even as he could make it. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Daubeney. It is an excellent innovation, I am sure. I was only a little taken aback. But if the Society approves it . . .” He allowed his voice to trail off.
He was still simmering at what struck him as a reprehensible breach in an institution with so many young lives in its care, but a lifetime’s practise of self-control enabled him to conceal this.
Mrs. Daubeney curtseyed, smiling graciously (if a trifle wetly).
Zacharias would have had no doubt that he had brought it off—if not for the sardonic light in Miss Gentleman’s eye.
· · ·
AFTER the extraordinary interruption to the Sorcerer Royal’s speech Mrs. Daubeney retired to her boudoir. The mistresses were tasked with entertaining Mr. Wythe while she recovered her spirits—and told Prunella off.
Prunella was not overly exercised by the summons.
Mrs. Daubeney would scold her for the morning’s work, no doubt, but her trespasses must have been thrown in the shade by Olivia’s display.
Besides, though Mrs. Daubeney did not know it, Prunella now possessed a potent weapon—such intelligence as would make Mrs. Daubeney forget all her complaints.
Prunella might have concealed her discovery of her father’s valise if there had been nothing in it but the journal and the trinket, for those could be of no value to anyone but herself.
Now that she knew what she possessed, however, it was clear that the good fortune must be shared with Mrs. Daubeney.
Mrs. Daubeney was reclining upon an ottoman when Prunella entered the room, her eyes fixed on some dreadful invisible sight.
She looked like the lead actress in a tragedy, but this accorded with Prunella’s expectations.
Mrs. Daubeney would enact her theatricals—alternate between tears and vapours, and rain down voluble reproaches upon Prunella’s head—but she would feel all the better for it, and there would be an end to the matter. Mrs. Daubeney never held a grudge.
“This morning’s scene in the eldest class, Prunella!” she exclaimed. “How could you have permitted the girls to run so wild? For the Sorcerer Royal to have witnessed such brazen indulgence in magic at my school, when magic is the one thing I have set my face against—oh, it is beyond anything!”
Prunella had resolved to wait out Mrs. Daubeney’s complaints, but she was full of her news, and she could not resist the opportunity to introduce the subject.
“But you must not be too prejudiced against magic, you know, Mrs. Daubeney,” said Prunella. “Why, only consider, if it were not for magic you would not have a school at all.”
“I should be pleased to give up the school if it meant no girl in England was afflicted with magical ability,” said Mrs. Daubeney mendaciously.
“But pray, Prunella, do not seek to change the subject. I am not sure you have a proper consciousness of what you have done. You ought to have considered me, but no one ever does, and it puts me in an impossible position!”
Mrs. Daubeney dissolved into tears. This might have dismayed anyone who knew her less well, but not Prunella. She rose and searched in a pretty japanned cabinet, unearthing a handkerchief, and thrust this into Mrs. Daubeney’s unresisting hand.
“I am sure I have done my best for you,” wept Mrs. Daubeney. “Indeed, no one expected that I should do so much. When your dear father died, my friends advised me to send you away. Why should I burden myself with the care of an infant unconnected to me, they said? But I ignored their counsel.”
Prunella was properly grateful, and said so, but she added, “My father did leave some money for my upbringing, ma’am. You know he left enough to feed and house me, till I turned eighteen.”