CHAPTER ONE
Rowan could hardly wait for the school carriage to lurch to a stop before leaping to the ground in front of the Oxford townhouse that had been her primary residence for as long as she could remember. “Good evening, Mr. Carter,” she said, giving the driver a hurried wave before entering the door the steward was already holding open.
“Good evening, Miss Rowan. I take it you had a pleasant day in class?” Blair inquired dryly, taking the coat that was thrust into his arms with his usual aplomb.
“Oh, quite. We had this fascinating lecture about the use of ogham in transformative magic, and do you know, Professor Archwood claimed to have learned it directly from one of the Aos Si. Can you imagine?” She flung herself into her usual chair by the fireside even as the cook arrived with the tea cart.
Blair stoked the fire and regarded her with an arch of his eyebrow. “No, indeed. But your father would not like to hear such talk. You are well aware that he does not approve of magicians involving themselves with the Fair Folk.”
“I know, I know. But I don’t see how it’s any different than all that demon and angel nonsense he’s always going on about. I don’t see why he wants to stick with moldy old techniques from Arabia when we have such a rich magical tradition right here in England,” she said, gesturing wildly with her tea spoon.
“Besides, I’m twenty-one years old now, and I’ll be sitting for my final examination in less than a year. I need to know at least the basics for treating with the Aos Si if I’m to make a good showing.”
“I do not doubt that you are correct, young miss, but if you will recall, your father was not at all keen on your studying magic in the first place. You practically blackmailed him into it. He may not be disposed to aid you.”
“Well, he was being ridiculous. Six generations of Ravencrofts have been magicians of renown. We are descended from the great Dr. Dee himself, as Father is often wont to remind us. It would be highly improper for the line to die out just because the one descendent of the seventh generation happened to be born a woman.
This is the 17th century, after all. If Queen Victoria has no issue running the British Empire, I daresay I can handle learning magic. Besides,” she said, finally deigning to actually stir the sugar into her tea and bring the cup to her lips, “I got into Oxford on my own merits. All Father had to do was not oppose it.”
“My point remains that I do not believe your father appreciated you disrespecting his wishes by going behind his back. Therefore, I doubt he will disregard one of his most important personal maxims just to enable your successful matriculation,” Blair said, sniffing disdainfully when he discovered the state of the young lady’s shoes. “Miss Rowan, I implore you to remove those muddy boots at once. However did you get in such a state?”
“Oh, stop fretting. I was gathering mushrooms for an Alchemy class, and you know the weather has been dreadful. You should have seen Master Oliver’s trousers,” she said with a chuckle of remembrance, untying the crusty laces of the aforementioned boots and holding them out to the steward. He took them from her with a long-suffering sigh.
“I have no interest in the state of Mr. Lincolnford’s trousers, unlike some others I might mention,” Blair said, eyeing her with a sardonic twist to his mouth.
Rowan snorted into her cup. “My goodness, how improper of you. Are you sure you’re feeling all right?” she exclaimed with mock horror. However buttoned-up their chief manservant might appear, she had known Blair since she was a child, and considered him more a family member than an employee. Something like a stern but kindly uncle with a sense of humor that was decidedly British.
“I only wish to make you feel more comfortable in your impropriety, miss. Now, when you finish your tea, Mrs. Campbell has made a request that you remove all of the books from your bed so that she can wash the linens tomorrow.
Dinner will be at half past six. I’m afraid you will have to wait until then to pester your father, as he went into his workshop this morning with orders that he was not to be disturbed.”
“Well, of course he did. You know, he hardly even came out on my birthday last week. You’d think he’d discovered the philosopher’s stone, the way he’s been barricading himself in there,” Rowan groused, but she was, in truth, used to her father’s sometimes obsessive behavior towards his work.
She drained her teacup with a sigh and trudged off to her room to clear the books. Though she might technically be the lady of the house, her father would not be amused if she made trouble for the servants, and Mrs. Campbell, especially, was not one to cross.
Later that evening, however, Rowan was disappointed to discover that her father was not at the dinner table. She really had wanted to ask him about transformation circles. “Father isn’t coming to dinner either?” she asked as she slid into her chair. Blair shrugged.
“We knocked on the door of the workshop, but there was no answer. You know as well as I do that opening that door without invitation could be hazardous to one’s health.”
That is certainly true, Rowan thought as the meal was served. Not even taking her father’s inevitable anger into consideration, there was the possibility that there could actually be something dangerous in the workroom, either a spell in progress or even an entity that could be unleashed by something as simple as disrupting the shape of the binding enchantment that was part of the door’s construction. It wasn’t the first time her father had missed dinner, and she doubted it would be the last, but still, she couldn’t help feeling uneasy.
When dinner was finished, she stood and squared her shoulders. “So, I gather none of you have spoken to Father since this morning?”
“No,” Blair answered, after looking at each of the other servants in turn. “As far as I know, he has not left the workroom or spoken to anyone since you left for class.”
“In that case, it falls to me to check on his well-being. If nothing is amiss, then I will take the blame for his ire,” she said, putting on the bravest face she could, despite the fact that she could feel her hands trembling.
“Very well,” Blair said gravely. “But what if something is wrong? Are you prepared to deal with the consequences, my lady?” He never called her lady. She wasn’t sure if it was a mark of respect or a reminder of the weight of her responsibilities.
Rowan held her head high, breathing in sharply. “I shall take precautions. But if a spell really has gotten the better of Father, the sooner something is done, the safer we shall all be. However, if I do not return within the hour, you must send a message to the Dean of the College.”
Blair inclined his head. “As you say, Miss Rowan.” With that, she left the dining room, taking a candle from the mantelpiece as she went. There was already chalk and the salt shaker from the table in her pocket. She could only hope that would be enough.
The bulk of their magical supplies were in the workroom she intended to break into, the door of which she now approached. It appeared larger in person than it was in her memories. She took another deep breath, feeling her heart pound against her breastbone. Where to begin? Her father’s voice drifted to her ear from the depths of her memory.
Whenever a magician goes into an unknown situation, his first order of business must be to protect himself. “Or herself,” she corrected automatically as she unscrewed the lid of the salt shaker and made a careful circle of white on the floorboards around her. That done, she decided the next thing she needed was reconnaissance. There were several options, but the first that came to mind was also the simplest.
“Fenella, I need your assistance, if you please,” she called, her hand held against her heart. A moment later, she felt the barest stirrings of magical power, and a lithe white cat paced into the corridor, regarding her with wide blue eyes.
Rowan knelt down to meet the gaze of her familiar more directly. “Good day, Fenella. I apologize for summoning you so precipitously, but it is a bit of an emergency. I need you to go into the workroom without disturbing the existing enchantments, and be my eyes, so I can see whether it’s safe for me to enter.”
The cat bobbed her head in assent and touched her forehead to Rowan’s. There was a pulse of power and a muted glow at the point of contact, and then Fenella walked to the door and disappeared through it. Rowan closed her eyes and saw the interior of her father’s workroom in the muted colors of a cat’s vision. It was a bit disorienting, seeing everything from a foot off the ground, and she felt a sensation of vertigo when Fenella leaped up onto one of the sanded tables to get a better look at the room.
Nothing seemed amiss at first, though there were protection glyphs and enchantments scribed on every wall as if her father had been expecting trouble. Finally, she saw him, and she let out a gasp. He was sprawled on the floor, unconscious or worse.
Fenella ran to his prone form the moment she sensed Rowan’s distress. With her cat senses, she determined at once that he was, in fact, alive. Besides the several layers of protective wards, there were no active spells or otherworldly creatures in the workroom. Knowing that everything was safe, Rowan called for Blair.