*This might be the first chapter of a new free novel to be posted here every Friday. Or I might drown the Right Honorable Jonathan, Earl of Blythe in the bathtub. (He’d prefer if the bathtub were full of gin, he says.) His thoughts move like a spider on acid. To make things worse I think you mugs might have wished a multiple first person POV novel on me (like I haven’t suffered enough!) Encouragement will be taken in the form of cold, hard cash, (or soft electronic cash) and $6 dollars gets you an e-copy of the finished novel. (Yes, those of you who paid for Witchfinder will get it, I’ve been dealing with RL which delayed the edits.) Discouragement can come in any form, provided you don’t throw rotten fruit at me, because I’m wearing a nice shirt.*
Rogue Magic
Sarah A. Hoyt
Jonathan:
The Honorable Earl
When I was very little, I used to have this nightmare where I was locked away in some inaccessible dungeon with a view.
What I mean is, it was some sort of dungeon, and it was very silent and somewhat dark, and I was chained hand and foot to the wall, but through the other wall in front of me I could see my sisters playing and my nanny crying “Master Jonathan,” but I couldn’t reach them.
Even in the dream, I knew something was wrong, because if I were to suddenly vanish and leave my nanny in charge of only the four girls, she wouldn’t cry. More likely she would give thanks fasting. And no one would blame her.
But then as I grew older, I’d come to understand that Nanny would indeed cry, because I was the only male heir, then, before Edward and Reuel were even born. Had I disappeared, the entail on the family title and lands and on Blythe’s Blessings, our all-too-profitable magical business, would have passed to my cousin Eldred. Which meant that Mother and Honoria, Helen, Harmonie, and Hosanna would have been quite destitute and nurse turned out to graze, or whatever it was you did with old servants. So Nanny would have cried, certainly, despite the various frogs in the knitting basket, grass snakes in her bed, and other less savory tricks with which I enlivened my dreary childhood.
I wondered if it was because of those tricks that I was – in a way – condemned to eternity in something very like the dungeon of my nightmares.
“Blythe!” Mamma said, in exactly the same tone she’d used to say “Jonathan!” until three weeks ago, when I’d arranged for Papa’s death and, inevitably, ascended to his dignities.
I blinked and, to my chagrin, became aware of my location which was the breakfast table, across from Mama, who was – in her day – a remarkable beauty, and who remained – I was assured – a very pretty woman, despite her one or two strands of grey, and her less than fresh complexion. Almost as pretty as the girls, and truth, how much older than them could she be. She’d married and had me at twelve, if you were to believe her. Not that she ever said that, precisely, but she claimed to be thirty nine, which would make her nine on the happy day of her marriage to papa. ‘s truth, I thought she’d probably been fifteen or so, so not that far off.
“Blythe!” Mama’s voice had just that nice blend of impatience, command, and a hint that she was terribly, terribly disappointed in me. From the foot of the table she glared at me, then her gaze went sideways to my right, and I looked. And almost dropped my napkin, because one of the footmen was standing there, holding a silver salve, with three letters on it.
I reached over and took the letters – though I’m fairly sure that was not what I was supposed to do, but I could never remember what I was supposed to do. The footman, a tall, not uncomely young man of maybe nineteen straightened up and I said “Er…” because I could never remember the creatures’ names, though Mama assured me that my sainted father never forgot a single one. The sainted must mean he belonged to some very odd religion because according to the dictates of the Christianity practiced in this isles, Papa must now be burning and sizzling in a circle of hell almost as deep as the one I’d someday be consigned to.
“Jon– Blythe!” Mama said, and a shadow of alarm joined the reproach in her voice. I realize I was staring straight ahead which unfortunately meant I was staring at a region of the footman’s anatomy at which no nicely brought up Earl should stare.
I wasn’t nicely brought up. But I also wasn’t interested. I looked up at the footman’s face, which was a shade of red one shouldn’t be able to turn unless one was halfway through becoming a tomato. His name came to me in a flash. He was Thomas, and he was our housekeeper’s son. “Thank you, Thomas. You may go.”
He bowed slightly, still bright red, and turned and went, which, from the purely aesthetic point of view, provided a not-unpleasant view.
Not that I was interested. I wasn’t. Once, when I was very drunk, I’d gone with some choice spirits to this club on Totenham Court Road, where they had boys whom one of my boon companions assured me could do what no girl could.
I suppose that would be correct, insofar as the parts were different, but for my money, give me a well grown wench of twenty or thereabouts, with a compliant disposition and a rounded figure. It would have cost me less of my money too.
Which doesn’t mean a man is either blind or devoid of imagination.
Before Mama could open her mouth – though I could feel her admonition hanging in the air – I turned to the letters, while saying, “Yes, Mama, I know. Blythe. Indeed, your use of the name begins to be tedious.”
I was aware of twin gasps from my left, where Harmonie and Hosanna – whom we called Hanna, because we’d never understood by what freakish lapse mamma had come to pick such a name – sat, and of a smothered giggle from the right, where Helen buttered her toast. Honoria was as dead as Papa, and in as dishonorable circumstances, though I’d managed to scotch that scandal at least. What call a girl had to get herself with child by a dragon, and one who didn’t like women at that, was quite beyond me. But Honoria had always been like papa and, ultimately, unreliable. Which meant it was a good thing she was gone.
I met Helen’s eye with a mildly reproving look, and she looked back at me, all proper, but I swear her eyes laughed. She was the only one in the family who looked like me, with curly dark hair and dark brown eyes, all the rest of the family looking like they’d run in the wash. She might resemble me in other ways. It bore watching.
I looked down from Helen to the letter I’d opened and realized, with a start, that it was from Seraphim Ainsling, Duke of Darkwater, now the royal Witchfinder and Prince Consort, since he’d married the Princess Royale. Who was having more trouble getting used to his dignities than I to mine.
The proof was right in this letter. It started with “Dear Jon” as though we’d still been boys, together, at Eaton – not that he’d ever called me dear, then. No one did. Until the age of twenty I’d thought my name was Jon, No! – and proceeded just as informally with, “There is a problem for which I’m very afraid I will need your help. Without it, the whole world could be lost. Please come see me as soon as you may after twelve” It was signed Seraphim A. and he’d not even bothered to use his signet ring.
I sighed forlornly. First, one is supposed to conform to his dignities, not to toss them aside and ignore one’s own importance. And second, I must be slipping if Seraphim knew I’d be awake shortly after twelve. I wondered what half of London would say if they knew I was awake at nine. How very unfashionable. I’d be quite disgraced.
I set aside the letter, met the eyes of my elder surviving sister, who, from the smile twitching the corners of her lips, seemed to know far too well what was going on in my mind. For a second I tried to remember how old she was. Seventeen? Eighteen? Old enough, at any rate, and I must find some unwary unfortunate to foist her upon in holy – or at least legal – matrimony.
“Helen!” Mama said, disapproval, asperity and a sort of despairing sigh mingling in her voice.
Well, it was neither Jonathan! nor Blythe at any rate. Just like when Nanny suspected the nursery maid, and not me, of having put salt in her tea, it was a relief.
I opened the next letter, noting the cheap paper and the clumsy handwriting of a man who is not used to plying a pen for a living. After opening the twice recrossed page, I looked down to find the signature of Wolfe Merrit.
I frowned at the handwriting, trying to make it out. Even uncrossed, Wolfe was hard to read. A good practical magician, and he kept Blythe’s Blessings and our various magically powered manufactures going as I couldn’t, but his father had been a farner, and it always seemed he’d be more at home with a plow then a pen.
By dint of glaring at the page, I made out the words corruption and magic, and something about one of our factories in the North being in dire trouble.
Well, that would need to be dealt with, and before Seraphim’s demmed noon appointment. Without the factories, I would lack the money to dower Helen, not to mention the money to dower Harmonie. And though I had the vague idea that Hanna should still be in the schoolroom, I also had a feeling she was out already and likely would need a dowry.
I was lucky enough that neither the king nor any of the persons injured had forced me to make restitution on Father’s ill gotten gains, but I could not now let the modicum of wealth we’d managed to wrest from ruing fall between my fingers. My sisters – and my brothers’ too – must be provided for. Yes, I must see Wolfe, confound him.
Helen let out a breath, with the sound of having held it long, and I looked up at her, as I set the letter aside. What was she looking so peeky for?
But she looked away from me, as I picked up the third letter, and that was all very well. I’d have to find out what was going through her head – hopefully not a dragon! – but that would wait till another time.
The letter in my hand was also cheap paper, but it was addressed in an unmistakably female hand and if I had any experience of it – and I did – a well-bred female hand. It had no name of origination. But the beautifully shaped, not at all vulgar handwriting put paid to the notion that it might be from my latest cher amie, who could barely hold a pen. I must remember to give her her conge. It didn’t do for the Earl of Blythe to keep a flirtation that had done quite well for Jonathan who very much hoped not to inherit the title.
I frowned down at the paper, registering that the letter was very short, that it started with Dear Sir, and that the signature was blotched with tears. The last was an unusual enough circumstance, but the text was even more peculiar. “Dear Sir,” it read. “I have understood that you’ve been endeavoring to find me. You must not. Oh, you must not. And you must forgive me the injury I’ve done you. Indeed, when you discover it, you must keep in mind that it was no fault of my own, and all of my circumstances. Please do not think badly of me. Indeed, you must believe me when I say if circumstances were different—”
This was where the blotching started, which extended all the way to the signature.
The strange thing about it was that the letter did not put me off, and I have the greatest dislike of females abuse indeed and who act as watering pots. I mean, once they’ve given in to your advances, what use is crying? And if they haven’t, it’s easily remedied.
But there was to this letter the feeling of a personality, the sense of a woman nearing the breaking point.
And besides, I had been looking for a woman, since that night when I’d ascended to poor Papa’s dignities, after his untimely suicide.
That night, in a not totally unrelated phenomenon, London had swarmed with demons, and while fighting them, I’d met—
Her image rose up before me: red hair, an impudent little face, and the sort of figure I would pay my money for. Only she was not the type who takes money.
She’d told me her name was Ginevra Elfborne, and she’d dressed like a governess. But she’d fought like a warrior for her gaggle of screaming debutants. And she’d disappeared like a lovely dream in the summer heat.
I’m not the type to pine for a bit of skirt, nor indeed for anyone. But I’d not been able to forget Ginevra nor to find her. My polite enquiries had said such a person had never been heard of, by the family she supposedly worked for. My respectable enquiry agents had come back empty handed. And my not so respectable agents had been bewildered and assure me no such woman existed nor had ever existed.
My eyes fell on that line, before the tears blotted her writing: Indeed, you must believe me when I say if circumstances were different—
I was sure the first three letters of the tear-soaked signature were G I N.
There are things you can do to a letter that will tell you where the writer is right then. Particularly a letter infused with tears, as this one was. Nothing a respectable magician will do, of course, but fortunately I was not a respectable magician.
“Blythe!” Mama’s voice said. “Your kidneys!”
Since this referred to my breakfast and not my body, I chose to ignore it. I wasn’t hungry at all. I must get to my office. I had a spell to perform.
And then maybe I’d find the little red-headed imp I couldn’t forget.
