Chapter 8 #3
THERE was no sign of the fire when Prunella awoke. She was lying on the chaise longue, and the Sorcerer Royal was in an armchair opposite, deep in thought.
Prunella looked around the room, expecting to see the walls blackened and the furniture reduced to tinder, but it was as though the fire had not happened at all. The only evidence that remained was the throbbing pain in her left wrist.
A dreadful thought struck her.
“My valise!” she cried.
“It is safe by your feet,” said Mr. Wythe. He did not seem ill at all. He bent on her a look of concern. “I am glad you are awake. How do you feel?
“How do I feel?” echoed Prunella.
Her immediate sensation had been of relief that Mr. Wythe had not touched her valise while she was unconscious, but now she had occasion to consider herself, she found she was exceedingly cross.
“That is scarcely to the point!” she snapped. “If you were capable all along of fighting off that fire, why did not you? I should have thought you would be ashamed to take your leisure, leaving me to suffer an injury!”
She sat up unsteadily and thrust out her arm, upon which a livid burn had been branded by the flame.
If Prunella had been less upset it might have occurred to her that upbraiding the Sorcerer Royal might not be the best means of persuading him to take her to London. She was quite out of temper, however, and the apparent collapse of her scheme had removed any reason to check her tongue.
Mr. Wythe looked wretchedly guilty.
“I am indeed ashamed,” he said. “I regret extremely that you should have been injured by an attack intended for me. If I had been myself, you should not have suffered the least harm.”
Such a ready acceptance of wrong could not but mollify Prunella. Besides, she was intrigued by the reference to the conflagration’s having been an attack. It had been clear that the fire was of magical provenance, but she had not considered what the purpose of that magic might be.
“Was it meant for you, then?” she said, forgetting her rancour in curiosity. “Are you often so attacked? Why, it is just like the old stories, with sorcerers continually at one another’s throats! I had not thought thaumaturges were still so murderous.”
“Neither had I,” said Zacharias grimly. “The ashes in the grate still bear the impression of the hex. It was designed to injure a magician, without leaving any trace of its presence. That is why the furniture is unharmed. My enemy, whoever he is, hoped to leave me a charred corpse—to be found sitting at my desk, with my possessions undisturbed where I left them.”
“How horrible!” said Prunella with relish.
“The hex was certainly intended for me. No other magician was meant to be staying at this inn,” said Zacharias.
“Unfortunately for you, Miss Gentleman, my enemy did not account for your presence. If you had been a chair, you would have escaped harm. Since the fire took you for a magician, you were burnt, for which I am very sorry indeed.”
“As you should be!” said Prunella, but the reproach was perfunctory.
It was too interesting to have been present at an attempt on the Sorcerer Royal’s life for Prunella to work up any lasting indignation about her part in the proceedings.
“I suppose the spell disabled you, so you should not be able to counter it. That was cleverly done.”
Zacharias looked embarrassed.
“No,” he said. “I was taken ill, as you observed, but that was merely an unlucky circumstance, unconnected to the attack.”
He hesitated, then continued awkwardly:
“I am prey to a recurring complaint whose symptoms are most marked in the evening, and particularly at midnight. It was unfortunate that my attacker struck at precisely that time. I am only glad I was able to summon my strength before it was too late—though not in time to prevent your coming to harm.”
The harm was not much worse than the cuts and scalds Prunella had received in the school kitchens, but she was not about to admit that. She drew herself up and looked haughty.
“I call it a disgrace!” she said. “My wrist hurts very much, and I should think it will need a great deal of time and care to heal. I don’t suppose it will have either, since I must return to Mrs. Daubeney, who doesn’t care whether I live or die!”
This was a wholly speculative play on Prunella’s part, for she had given up on Mr. Wythe’s doing as she desired. It took the wind out of her sails when he replied:
“Of course you cannot go back to that finishing school. Your talent would be thrown away there. I shall take you to London. If I am to reform the magical education of women, why should not the reform begin with you?”
“Oh!” said Prunella. After a moment she rallied, and tried to look as though this were only what she had expected. “Yes! That is what I have been trying to tell you all along.”
Mr. Wythe nodded, but he did not look at her.
“Besides,” he said, “I am in your debt, and will do what I can to make a return. I should likely have died if not for you. You saved my life.”
“Why, so I did,” said Prunella, charmed.