May 1817
John Segundus sat quietly in the cheerful, sunny main room of the Old Starre Inn, listening to men talk about magic. This was no longer an unusual occurrence; indeed, the meetings of the Learned Society of York Magicians had doubled in number (to the innkeeper's delight), at least for the time being, and the Inn was filled with magicians every two weeks instead of every four. Still, Segundus could not help but marvel at what he took to be a sign of a renewed age of scholarship and study— an age that he, improbable magician that he was, had helped bring about! It was an exhilarating thought.
Alas, Segundus had no companion with which to share such thoughts. Mr. Honeyfoot, Segundus's most constant and steadfast friend, had taken ill the previous week and didn't have the strength to attend the meeting, even though he would not have to travel for it. Segundus was quite alone. He didn't mind, exactly; he figured that he had said enough for the time being. Still, it would have been nice to speak with someone else over breakfast, he mused. He had several kind criticisms of William Hadley-Bright's speech from the previous night that he wished to share with the man himself, but he was nowhere to be found. Segundus scanned the room once more and sighed to himself.
In his solitude, the frustrations that usually laid dormant in the back of his mind bubbled up and demanded that they be taken out and examined closely. Segundus could only oblige. First, he worried about Starecross: he and Mrs. Lennox hadn't yet found any pupils who might be interested in learning magic at such an institution. His livelihood might disappear, once again, without ever having fully materialized. That, of course, led to worry over his finances; namely, his lack thereof. He had enough to get by, but his clothes were wearing thin once more, and he had begun to discover that magic could be quite an expensive undertaking. Quite aside from books, of which few remained, magic often required herbs and ribbons and knives and all sorts of strange, fiddly devices that cost more than Segundus could scrape together in a month. Just as Segundus was beginning to fret over his inability to properly study magic and the disappointment he was sure to make of himself, a bout of laughter went up from a few tables over, and his worries scurried back into the shadows of his mind. He found it easier to pay them no mind when he was distracted, so he decided to distract himself.
Segundus took a deep breath, inhaling the familiar inn-scent of fresh-cooked food and spilled ale that burrowed its way into the wooden furniture and never quite came out. Now was not the time for worry, he told himself firmly. He had plenty of time for that later. For now, he should find a magician or two who might welcome his company and his conversation. Thus decided, he cast his attention around the room, searching for a table he might join.
Much of the talk was too quiet for him to hear, tucked away as he was in a small, clean booth in a corner. The grand speeches and wild assertions had all been spoken last night. Now was the time for intimate discussion with one or two of one's fellows, so that one might come to his— or hers, Segundus told himself firmly, thinking of Miss Redruth— own conclusions regarding the previous night's revelations.
And such revelations they had been! Childermass had dragged a half-sozzled Vinculus before the assembled gentlemen, stripped his filthy work-trousers off, and pointed to a spot high on Vinculus's thigh that had made Segundus's cheeks heat and some of the older gentlemen mutter disapprovingly.
"Good evening, gentlemen," Childermass had said gravely, as though he had no idea of the fuss he'd caused. On the contrary, Segundus had been quite sure that it had delighted him. "The gentlemen of the Oxfordshire Magicians' Society have deciphered this spell written here in the Book. Please make special note of its location. They believe it may be significant." Childermass had paused then, pulled a tattered scrap of paper from his coat pocket and laid it upon the table, and added: "I have made a copy of their translation. You may all copy it for thyselves." And with that, Childermass had stomped out the door and into the night, and Segundus had not seen him since.
Now, Segundus was regretting not having spoken to Childermass when he had the chance. He had left for home before Childermass had come to retrieve Vinculus; many magicians of the York Society traveled for the meetings, but Segundus had found himself a pleasant landlady in the town proper who charged reasonable rent. Thus, he had no need to lay awake after having gone to his room at a sensible time, listening to the younger magicians carouse long past the hour when they ought to have been quietly in bed with a good book. He wondered where Childermass had gone when he left Vinculus alone in the hands of the gentlemen magicians. It was uncharacteristic for him to leave the Book alone in such a manner; normally, the two were closer than, well— Segundus smiled to himself— than two pages in a closed book.
Perhaps, like the Devil, thinking of Childermass summoned him; the inn's front door opened, letting in a gust of chilly early-spring wind, and there he was in the flesh. He glanced around the room until his eyes lit upon Segundus, then made his way over, bringing the smell of the moors with him to settle in the cracks and corners of the furniture. He loomed over Segundus like a bird-of-prey, his rain-dark hair and ruffled clothing entirely at odds with the sunny, cheerful interior of the inn.
Segundus was startled out of his reverie. "Would you like to—" he began, but Childermass interrupted him by sitting down before he could finish his invitation. "Very good."
"I looked for you last night," Childermass said without preamble.
This divulgence was so surprising that Segundus had to take a moment to come up with an answer. "I went home," he said.
Childermass raised an eyebrow. "All the way to Starecross?"
"No." Segundus fidgeted with the cuff of his jacket and noted in the back of his mind that it was wearing thin. "I have a room here in York, in the town proper. I must be here; it is where all the magic is being done!"
"So you have abandoned your respectable position as a madhouse-keeper?" Childermass kept a straight face, but Segundus was quite sure he was being made fun of.
"Not abandoned it!" Segundus insisted. "Only, there is no need for a madhouse-keeper if the madhouse has no patients, is there? Lady Pole is quite well again, thanks in part to your efforts. And besides, whatever your views on madhouse-keepers, it is not a position I wish to personally fill, and I only did it the once because I had no other options."
"You are a magician, Mr. Segundus," said Childermass. "You always have options."
Segundus looked down at the table. Though it looked well cared-for, the wood was worn and age-darkened. He supposed that was an inevitability in a place as bustling and prosperous as the Old Starre Inn. "I was not a magician then," he said quietly. "At least, not much of one, not in any way that mattered. You made sure of that." He glared at Childermass, whose normally-inscrutable eyes seemed to take on a veil of pity, though it was gone before Segundus could be certain of what he saw.
"I believe I have apologized enough for that," said Childermass.
"Apologized?" Segundus repeated. "We haven't spoken in months!"
"I have been travelling," Childermass said with an air of patience. "Helping to ensure the reinstatement of the societies of magicians that fell apart in the past few decades."
"The ones that you broke up, you mean." Segundus knew he was being surly, but he couldn't help it. He had started the day in such a tranquil and scholarly mood— how had he become so agitated? The answer, he knew, was in front of him. Childermass had an uncanny knack for riling up gentlemen who would rather be left well enough alone. Childermass might say the same of him, of course.
Childermass sighed. "Yes, the ones I broke up, in the service of one of the men who brought back English magic. He was short-sighted and jealous, but he is gone now, and I am making what reparations I may. What would you have me do, Mr. Segundus, to atone more fully? Would you have me step backward in time to undo my actions? Would you have me vanish off this Earth and remove my influence entirely?"
Segundus looked down once more at the table, feeling rather like a chastised child. It was a familiar feeling, though one he hadn't experienced in many decades. He decided he didn't like it any more now than he had in his father's home. He opened his mouth to retort, but Childermass held up a hand for silence, his head tilted to one side with the air of a dog listening intently for a small scurrying creature in the underbrush.
"What?" Segundus asked a moment later when Childermass turned his attention back to him.
"I overheard talk of the topic I sought you out to discuss," Childermass said. "It is a rather pressing matter."
"Oh." Segundus felt a flash of embarrassment. Of course Childermass had an agenda; he wouldn't seek Segundus out for the simple pleasure of his company and conversation. "What topic might that be?"
"The Johannite rebellion," said Childermass. "I trust you have heard of it?" He looked at Segundus from under sooty lashes as though gauging his reaction.
"Of course I have heard of it. Who has not heard of it?" (Childermass let out a huff of laughter.) "But I thought it was put down last year."
Childermass shook his head, and his hair moved in a dark ripple like an implacable wave far out in the middle of the ocean. At least, that's how Segundus imagined such a wave might look. The only waves Segundus had ever seen were the small ones that broke upon the beaches of Essex. "It was," Childermass said, and Segundus's thoughts snapped once more to the present. "Mostly. But it seems it has started up again with the return of the Raven King. Some of the Johannites seem to believe that he will personally force the factories and workshops to hire them back, if only they smash enough machines in his name."
"And you want to consult with me on… how to quell the rebellion?" Segundus asked slowly.
The corner of Childermass's mouth twitched. "In a manner of speaking. I want you to come to Duffield with me."
Vinculus's loud arrival spared Segundus the burden of answering such a suggestion immediately. Childermass swore under his breath and swept away to help sweep up the broken mess of a ceramic jug that Vinculus had managed to shatter. Segundus could hear him muttering apologies and promises of recompense to the stern-faced innkeeper as he gathered the shards with his bare hands. He returned a few minutes later, nursing a few shallow cuts on his fingers that he immediately hid when he noticed Segundus watching him. Even given a few moments to think it over, Segundus had no idea how he might answer Childermass's proposal.
"Why me?" he asked as soon as Childermass sat down.
Childermass's brow furrowed. "Because you are the only magician here with a lick of sense," he said. "These are practical men. Craftsmen. They would not listen to the likes of Dr. Foxcastle or Mr. Thorpe, let alone any of the Messrs. Greyshippe."
Segundus supposed that Childermass meant it as a compliment, but he couldn't help but feel slighted. "You imply I am a gentleman of no great means," he said. He felt his ears heat up once again and supposed that he must look rather comical, flushed and bothered as he was. He could not help it, however. Childermass was simply the sort of man who provoked such a reaction, and he took pleasure in it, too! Even now, Segundus was sure Childermass was holding back a smile. "And while I admit that I have been… embarrassed in the past, I assure you that I am in no financial difficulty at the time!"
"These men are," Childermass said baldly. "Their very livelihoods are in danger. That is something you understand far better than any magician here, save perhaps Tom Levy and myself."
"Why take another magician at all?" asked Segundus. He was stalling for time, and he was quite certain Childermass knew it.
"Because I serve the Raven King, as the Johannites claim to." The shadows in Childermass's face and about his person twisted, and the darkness of his hair and his coat ran together, and it seemed for a moment that he wore a heavy, rich cloak of office. Segundus could very well believe that Childermass's every movement, every word was in service of the Raven King. In an instant, the effect was gone; Childermass appeared, once again, to be no more than a weary man of the world. "They would not see me as a neutral force. They would want me to be an ally in their fight, and when I prove myself to be otherwise, I would become their enemy."
Segundus nodded. It was a phenomenon he had seen many times, and while he understood the tendency of men to take such a position, it frustrated him nonetheless. He glanced around the comforting interior of the Old Starre Inn. As the morning had grown late, it had gotten busier; now, it was practically bustling. Many of the patrons were magicians, more than a few nursing hangovers, but many more were the good (and several disreputable) citizens of York stopping by for a cup of midmorning tea or an early luncheon.
Segundus came to a decision. This inn had been where he had asked The Question so long ago: "Why is magic no longer done in England?" That question had led not only to magic being done, but Segundus being one of those who could do magic. The Old Starre Inn was a place of change, a place of stepping out of one world and into the next, and Segundus felt he could do with that right about now.
"I will go with you," he found himself saying almost as soon as he had decided. "Though I'm not sure how much use I shall be."
Childermass smiled a triumphant little smile. "I am sure you shall prove your worth before the end."
"I have a few questions," Segundus said as he moved to pay their tabs. (He was still feeling rather slighted and wished to prove to Childermass that he had no need of charity.)
Childermass smiled thinly. "I thought you might." He held the door open for Segundus, who thanked him. It did not cross his mind that Childermass might have held the door out of habit rather than courtesy until he saw a flash of surprise on Childermass's face, and he felt a tiny amount of satisfaction. You think you know everything, but you don't know me half as well as you should like to pretend, do you? he thought rather viciously, and then scolded himself for being unkind.
"Do you have a carriage, Mr. Segundus?" Childermass asked as they stepped out onto the sidewalk.
"Er, no," said Segundus. He flushed once more (curse his complexion! At least his hair was behaving as it ought to) and paused outside the inn. "I walked here this morning. I live only a few blocks away. Would you like to come for tea?"
Childermass smirked. "You have just had tea."
"Well, I might have some more," Segundus said with an air of dignity. "I must inform my landlady that I will be going away, and she'll take it better if I tell her over tea. She would not mind a guest."
"She may mind two, if one of them is Vinculus," Childermass said. He considered for a moment. "But yes, I shall join you for tea, and I will answer your questions. Perhaps in an hour? I'm sure Vinculus needs time to sober up." He grimaced.
"Yes, in an hour," Segundus agreed, and it wasn't until he arrived and informed Mrs. Sparrow that he realized that he had never told Childermass his address.
February 1817
In the county of Derbyshire, in the borough of Amber Valley, there was a small town called Duffield. Its inhabitants were principally farmers and craftsmen, and a textile mill, established in the area before the war, employed a couple dozen men. Though Duffield lay on the northerly side of the River Trent, it was not much affected by the Raven King's conquest, as he preferred to keep further to the North, particularly in the county of Yorkshire. Subsequently, it was not much affected by the Raven King's departure. Its citizenry cared little for the king who was as absent and had as little consequence to their lives as the distant King of Southern England. It would be safe to assume, therefore, that the good people of Duffield would pay little attention to the return of magic— and the Raven King— to England. However, that was not to be the case.
"Maggie, come quickly! You must see what little Florence has done!"
Margaret le Roy, known to her closest friends (and a few of her greatest enemies) as Maggie, looked up in annoyance from her task of mending the third-best riding gown of Mrs. Porter, the mistress of Duffield Hall. Milly Greene, governess to young mistresses Mary Porter and little Florence Porter, stood in the doorway, a splash of ink across her cheek and dark curls falling out of her simple chignon.
"Come along," Milly urged once more. "She has done the most marvellous thing!"
"What has she done?" Maggie asked. She turned back to her mending. "Has she finally mastered French conjugations? Did her most recent table design send you into raptures?"
"No, never mind her table design," Milly said impatiently. "You must see for yourself."
Maggie stood with a sigh. She supposed she could leave the mending for later; it was very nearly complete anyway. "Very well. But why can you not tell me?"
"It is impossible to describe. You would not believe me if you do not see it with your own eyes."
Maggie allowed herself to be dragged upstairs and through the brightly lit halls of Duffield Manor. Their destination turned out to be the drawing room, where most of the household were already congregated. Mr. and Mrs. Porter and Mary Porter stood in a huddle around little Florence, and the housekeeper and the butler were not far away. Maids and footmen stood in groups of twos and threes, alternately craning their necks to see whatever spectacle had befallen little Florence and speaking to one another in hushed, unsettled whispers.
Milly, as the governess, had the right to pull Maggie directly up to the family themselves and point to the object that lay on the table before little Florence: a delicate, perfectly-formed quill pen made entirely of glass.
Maggie looked from the glass quill to Milly. "I do not understand. Do you mean to say that little Florence is considering a career as a glazier?"
"Don't be daft," Milly said. "It is magic. She has done magic."
Magic! Maggie's head swam. If the family had not been present, she would have sat down. As it were, she was obliged to lean heavily on Milly's arm. "But there is no more magic in England," she said. "Save for that of those two gentlemen."
"Apparently, that is no longer the case," said Milly. "For here is proof of magic before our very eyes."
"I will write my brother. His master is the first of the two magicians. Surely he will have answers to all our questions."
Mr. Porter spoke for the first time since Maggie had stepped in the room. "You will do no such thing," he said sharply. "None of you will speak or write a word about this to anyone outside of this household. In fact, I forbid any discussion or gossip of the events of today with any member of the household. This is not to be spoken of."
Maggie raised an eyebrow at Milly, who stifled a chuckle. They both knew that Mr. Porter's orders would only make it all the more likely for gossip and rumors to spread like weeds.
Mrs. Porter shared a glance with Mrs. Hughes, the housekeeper. "Go on, you lot," said the latter in her soft Scottish burr. "No time to waste standing around."
The crowd dispersed shortly after, and Mr. Porter shut the door to the drawing room with a firm thud.
"I will write my brother," Maggie whispered to Milly as they made their way back downstairs, still arm-in-arm.
"I should think so," said Milly, similarly sotto voce. "I'll post it for you so the hall boy doesn't tattle."
Maggie squeezed her friend's wrist in gratitude and separated their arms. "We ought to get back to work," she said. "Mistress's dresses won't mend themselves."
"Lessons are cancelled for the day in light of recent events, but I suppose I can find some useful task for myself."
"I suppose that means you're going to be reading one of your novels for the rest of the afternoon," Maggie said wryly.
Milly laughed. "Not a novel! Miss Wollstonecraft is an essayist and a philosopher."
"Nothing can be said against the betterment of your mind, but I do not believe Mr. Porter would appreciate you teaching his daughters the philosophy of Miss Wollstonecraft."
"That is precisely why I must do so."
"Why, Miss Milly Greene! I had not taken you for a revolutionary."
"Is it so revolutionary to want equality of the sexes?" Milly asked. "Then so be it. I am a revolutionary! I am off to join the Johannites!" She hitched up her skirts and made to rush off down the hallway, but Maggie grabbed at her elbow, and they collapsed against the wall in a mutual fit of giggles.
"I really must finish my mending," Maggie said a few minutes later, after they had both regained their composure. "I'll write my brother afterward."
"I will make some excuse to go into town after luncheon," said Milly, "if you think your letter will be ready by afternoon post."
Maggie nodded. "Thank you."
Milly waved off her gratitude. "It is nothing. I likely would have written to one of the magicians myself, impertinent though it may be. One being your brother's master only makes it all the more likely that our concerns will be attended to."
Maggie smiled to think of how her brother might attend to the Porters' concerns, had the letter come from anyone but her. "Good day, Milly," she said with a small curtsey.
"Good day, Maggie." Milly curtseyed as well and made her way down the hallway toward the servants' entrance.
Maggie sighed and returned to her mending.
—-
Maggie did not receive a reply from her brother for over a week. When she did, it was a strange, harried account of a series of impossible-sounding events that took place in and around Hurtfew Abbey, which she recognized as the home of his now-former employer, and the small village of Starecross, which she had never heard of but would soon become quite significant, if her brother were to be believed. (She had conflicting thoughts on that matter.) She showed the letter to Milly, but the handwriting was so spiky and rushed that Milly could barely decipher it, and Maggie was obliged to summarize its salient points.
"Magic has returned to England," she said. "And so has the Raven King." Maggie squinted at the letter. "And then there is something about a hanged man with a book— no, the hanged man is the Book, with a capital B— written by the Raven King himself." Maggie sat back in her chair. "Well. It seems all of England is in an uproar."
"Except, perhaps, Duffield," said Milly with a small smile. "I don't believe I have ever heard of an uproar reaching Duffield."
They were sitting in Milly's small cottage on the grounds behind Duffield Hall, sharing a late-night cup of coffee and several glasses of mulled wine. Maggie's fingers ached; two of the footmen were sick with the flu, so it had fallen to her to polish the silver in their stead. It was not a task she particularly liked, and she resented Mrs. Hughes for assigning it to her instead of to one of the hall boys. She was very pleased, therefore, to be sitting with her friend and drinking wine. "Nor have I," she said. "I rather miss Yorkshire. I like a good uproar, now and again."
"We may be bound for one, if word gets out about little Florence."
Maggie's brother had assured her that it was perfectly possible little Florence had truly performed magic. He did not need to investigate to say so; he believed that most of the reports of magic across the country (some of which had even reached Duffield) were true, if somewhat exaggerated.
"It's only a matter of time," Milly continued. "The maids are incorrigible gossips. Present company excluded, of course." She winked.
Maggie had to laugh. "No, no! I am the worst gossip of all."
Milly sipped her wine, savoring the taste before swallowing. "You pretend to be," she said, "but only for inconsequential matters that are no news to anybody. You keep the valuable information to yourself, until you believe the time is right for you to whisper it in the correct ear."
Maggie took a long pull of wine to cover her discomfort. "You make me sound like a spymaster. If I do as you say, I assure you it isn't intentional."
"Intentional or not, it is clever. Ipsa scientia potestas est."
"I have not had the advantage of an upper-class education. My Latin is surpassingly poor."
Milly smiled thinly. "The phrase means knowledge itself is power, though I do not think Mr. Bacon had women in mind when he penned it. Male philosophers rarely take women into consideration when constructing their philosophies."
"That is why you turn to female philosophers, I suppose," said Maggie.
"Precisely. It is a modern age, and the time is long gone for women's ideas to be dismissed from the sphere of rationality."
"You are wasted on the Porters," Maggie said. "You ought to give lectures in London or Oxford."
It was Milly's turn to laugh. "London or Oxford! Perish the thought. Imagine me, the governess of Nowhere Hall in Nothing-field, standing up in front of the society of London or all the lordlings at Oxford, and delivering a lecture on why they ought to take women's ideas seriously. I'd be the laughingstock of the country. No, dearest Maggie, it would not do." She fixed a smile on her face, but Maggie could see the faint traces of sadness lingering around her eyes and in the corners of her mouth. "Now, tell me about your new beau."
Maggie blushed furiously. "Mr. Hastings is not my beau," she said.
Milly raised an eyebrow. "I have seen the way you smile when you receive a letter from him."
"He isn't! It isn't… certain. Mr. Hastings is a widower."
"But you like him?"
A broad smile stole over Maggie's face, quite without her consent. "Aye, very much."
"I only hope he is equal to your regard. Does he live in the town?"
Maggie nodded. "He is a leather-worker, mostly for the saddle-maker, though I understand he sometimes does small matters for the cobbler as well."
"Does he have any children from his previous marriage?"
"Two young girls. Darling creatures, though full of mischief with no mother to raise them proper."
"I should be delighted to meet them all, sometime."
Maggie smiled. "As soon as it can be arranged."
They sat in silence for some minutes and sipped their beverages.
Milly was the first to speak. "What do you make of the return of the Raven King?"
"I am not sure," Maggie said carefully. "It is surprising, to say the least. Why now?"
"Why now indeed?"
"Well, what do you make of it?" Maggie asked when it became apparent Milly would not speak further unless prompted.
"I scarcely know. I am not a northerner like yourself. I was not raised on legends of the Raven King."
Maggie did not consider herself to be raised, precisely. Taught to beg and steal at a young age was more appropriate. Children of her ilk were not raised; they survived. She did not correct her friend, however. "I'm not sure how instructive the legends are, in any case. They may have become so distorted with time and retelling that they bear no resemblance to the truth."
"There is often truth to be found even in folly," said Milly, "especially such well-remembered folly. Come, tell me the legends you know, so I may be prepared for when His Grace himself rides through Duffield and the family is to receive him."
"Aye, very well," Maggie said, laughing. "I shall tell you the story of the Raven King and the apple tree. It is said to have occurred here, if you can believe it, or very near. My brother told it me when we were young. It begins like this: In the year 1247, the Raven King rode alone over the land on a mission only he himself knew…"