Chapter 14
ZACHARIAS ESCORTED PRUNELLA back to his lodgings after the close of the Ball, adjuring her sternly not to go anywhere, nor do anything whatsoever, while he attempted to resolve the difficulties in which Mak Genggang had mired them all.
It was late and Prunella was weary, but she could not avoid the orb any longer.
Part of her longed to know more, even as another part shrank in indistinct fear from learning anything further of her history.
Alone in her bedchamber, she took the orb off its chain and looked at it, glinting upon her palm.
“But what is there to be afraid of?” she said aloud. Despite Mrs. Daubeney’s attempts to gilt his memory, her father was a suicide who had died in miserable obscurity, and achieved nothing of what he had hoped for. Surely she could not discover anything worse than that.
She shook the eggs out of their pouch, spreading them out upon a directoire so positioned that she could observe them while she worked with the orb.
Squeezing her eyes shut, Prunella bit her lip until the coppery taste of her own blood filled her mouth. She fumbled for the orb, and pressed it against her lips. She opened her eyes, and flung the silver ball in the air.
It hung suspended, shining as before, and the woman’s voice issued from the orb—unsteady at first, but gaining strength as she sang.
She might have been singing in Greek for all Prunella understood of the words, but she listened, half-entranced, as though by close attention she might decipher the meaning of the song, and divine some quality in the voice that marked it as possessing a connection to her own.
She was so engrossed that for a brief time she forgot all about the treasures, and was only reminded of them when one of the stones rattled off the directoire and fell on the floor. Prunella leapt forward and scooped it up.
The egg felt as hard as ever, no different from any dull stone, she thought—but then she felt something move within it.
She rose and looked at the treasures. Some of the stones were vibrating, though the directoire itself was still. To her mingled delight and alarm she saw that one of the eggs was beginning to crack. The finest fissure could be discerned upon its surface, growing as she watched.
Magic infused the air; her every breath was haloed with green mist. Prunella felt as though she were standing at the brink of a sea of magic, watching a swelling wave gather force before it crashed upon the shore.
The very walls seemed to grow thin and insubstantial, scarcely capable of holding out against a fearsome world outside.
The black shadows in the corners of the room took on a life of their own; they peeled off the floor and danced around her, holding hands.
Ordinary things—the grate, the bed, the directoire, the curtains—all took on a dreadful significance.
Prunella found her head hurt badly. The light from the fire was too bright. It was hard to move, for she felt as though with every step she pushed back a great load—a veritable boulder of magic. But she reached for the orb and somehow contrived to grasp it.
Fortunately there was a basin of water not far from her.
She dropped the orb into it, heard it splash—for Prunella could hardly see now; her vision was so crowded with lights and vivid colours—and rubbed it with her fingers till it was clean.
Her task was hindered by the violent shaking of her hands, but the song began to fade, and finally the voice went silent.
The egg in her hand was no longer anything but a stone.
She placed it gently upon the directoire, and took stock of her treasures.
Only one had that crack across it, which now looked like a mere fault in the stone—though not a minute ago she had seen a green light shining from it, and known that whatever it was that was locked within the stone was emerging.
A stray line from the monograph she had read that morning returned to her—its only reference to familiars’ eggs:
It is clear that familiars hatched from the egg have nothing to do with the true, angelic paredrus.
Indeed, from the effects of such hatchings as we have seen, there is some ground for asserting that the former are rather creatures of the diabolical kind, but though the argument presents a rich vein worthy of further investigation, it falls without the scope of this work.
Prunella had dismissed this earlier as nonsense.
But she saw the author’s meaning now. He meant that familiars’ eggs were dangerous, and never more so than when they hatched.
She knew this with a bone-deep certainty.
She had known, when she saw the egg begin to crack, that she was not capable of controlling the spirit it contained, nor of predicting the fury it might unleash.
That she would—must—hatch the eggs, however, she knew without a shadow of a doubt.
Her headache was nearly gone, but she would have endured far worse for such a return—such a sense of limitless glory!
She could not bear the thought that she might never again stand on that shore, looking out across that vast ocean of wonder.
If this was how thaumaturges felt, little wonder they were so jealous of their magic, and begrudged women the most trifling spell!
So too should she hoard magic if she had experienced that sensation and feared losing it.
Still, it is unjust of them, she thought. If Mak Genggang is right, there is no reason a female cannot command a familiar’s powers as well as a man. It is shockingly ungallant of men to withhold from us our fair share of magic!
Zacharias would have warned Prunella to proceed with caution if he had heard her thoughts.
Strong magic was not unlike wine in its effect upon the heads of those unused to it, and the intoxication of a first encounter with the powers of a familiar had led more than one thaumaturge into folly.
Zacharias might have said that given what one surrendered in the Exchange, no one in his right mind would become a sorcerer if not for that exhilaration—or unless he had some other potent incentive.
But Zacharias was not present to give a lecture Prunella would have found dull. She had not quite made up her mind to become a sorceress herself, but she longed to make another trial with the eggs, if only to experience again that heady taste of power.
Even if she possessed the secret of awakening the eggs, however—even if her mother (if it was truly her mother) had left her the song that would unlock their spell—she could not use it till she knew what was needed to pacify the familiars that emerged.
After all, whatever I do with the treasures, I must know how they are to be hatched safely.
I could scarcely sell familiars’ eggs that do nothing but give their owners headaches!
Perhaps—the disturbing thought would occur—perhaps what the Society says is true, and I only suffered from the treasures because I am too weak to endure their magic, being a mere female.
But there is one person who will know if that is true—one who will tell me what I must do to govern the treasures, if I am capable of it.
She would go now, before anything occurred to prevent her asking the questions for which she craved answers. Mr. Wythe’s lodgings were near the Society, and it would be a short walk, shorter than the one she had taken from the school to surprise Mr. Wythe at the Blue Boar.
If it were ancient, secret wisdom Prunella sought, she must consult that mistress of secrets, that revealer of mysteries, that unparalleled witch, defier of sorcerers and sultans alike—Mak Genggang herself.
· · ·
DAWN had begun to unfold its silver light over the Society gardens when Zacharias passed through the gate. He was not surprised to see the figure waiting for him by the doors, though he had told no one of his intentions.
“I had thought I would see you here,” said Midsomer.
Zacharias bowed, though he was chilled by a premonition of disaster.
He did not remark upon the curious circumstance of both his and Midsomer’s being abroad so early.
Midsomer knew that Zacharias had travelled under darkness in hope of having the chance of speaking to Mak Genggang undisturbed.
Zacharias knew Midsomer had hoped to catch him out.
It was so unnatural a situation as not to require comment.
“I hope Mrs. Midsomer is recovered from the shock she received yesterday,” said Zacharias. “I am glad she came to no lasting harm from the altercation.”
“God grant that may be the case. It is too early for anyone who has my wife’s welfare at heart to trust that she has indeed suffered no harm,” said Midsomer coldly. “I am not here to discuss my wife, however. I had hoped to have the opportunity to speak to you in private.”
“I have not much time, I am afraid,” said Zacharias. “But perhaps if you came to my rooms later—”
“There is no need. What I have to say will not take much time,” said Midsomer. “I intend to propose to the Committee today that the Society take steps to subdue the witches of Janda Baik, whence came the hag Mak Genggang. Will you support this motion, or not?”
Zacharias’s sense of foreboding grew stronger. “What steps do you propose?”
“Whatever is necessary to ensure they can no longer pursue their evil magics,” said Midsomer. He smiled without mirth. “I admit I have not yet sketched out a plan of attack, but I am sure your imagination can supply any gaps.”
“You mean military action,” said Zacharias. “Have you forgotten our agreement with the French, sir? The sorcieres watch our movements too closely ever to miss such a flagrant breach.”
Midsomer looked pleased at this response, though he sought to conceal it, affecting a frown.