02 The Grand Tour Read online

  "You have become very studious," James observed the night before we reached the base of the Alps.

  "Lady Sylvia gave me a deal of advice before we left Paris," I said, closing my book with a sigh. "But I think I would have to be three people at least in order to accomplish all that she advises. Basic magic, warding and detection spells, royal and magical history—"

  "Warding and detection spells?" James frowned. "I have the greatest respect for Lady Sylvia, but those are far more advanced magic than you can manage yet."

  "I know," I said. "I don't think she means me to cast them myself; I think she expects Thomas to do that. But she felt that it would be wise to have more than one person who could tell if they were being tested or tampered with."

  James's frown deepened. "Thomas hasn't been casting warding spells."

  "Not yet," I said. "But I expect he will want to do so when we reach Milan and are settled in one place for a few weeks."

  "I suppose she's thinking of that attempted theft in Calais," James said. "But wards hardly seem necessary now—it's not as if we still have the chrism."

  I looked at him in fond exasperation. "No, but we may very well come upon something else that is just as important. And if we do, and Thomas suddenly starts putting up wards then, everyone will realize that we have it."

  "Not everyone," James said. "Only wizards who bother to check on us. Though I do see your point. Those are exactly the sort of people we wouldn't want to notice anything out of the ordinary."

  "Besides, I have been acquiring a good deal of theoretical information about magic, but I haven't had much chance for practical application," I said. "I think Lady Sylvia means it to be a chance for me to practice."

  "And possibly a chance for Thomas to practice as well," James said thoughtfully. "He improvises brilliantly, and it's hard to find someone to touch him when he sets himself to working out the equations for a complex spell, but the trouble is, he doesn't get down to it often enough."

  "I'll make sure to mention it to him when we reach Milan, then," I said.

  "I'll do that," James said hastily. "I may not be able to contribute much directly to the magical end of things, but I think I can get Thomas moving."

  "You can do more than that if you remember your Greek and Latin," I said. "The authors of Lady Sylvia's books don't seem to write spells in anything else, and the bits and pieces I've picked up listening to Papa are simply not adequate for this."

  James grinned, and we spent the rest of the evening drilling Latin verbs. The following day, we arrived in Bourg-Saint-Pierre, and I had to shift for myself while James and Thomas hired guides and mules to take us across the pass.

  I was not much impressed by the mules, but one cannot deny that they are sure-footed. We were fortunate to begin the crossing on a clear, sunny day, which made the cold more bearable and allowed a clear view of the scenery. This last was a mixed blessing, as occasionally the trail was so narrow that if one looked down, one saw one's foot in the stirrup suspended over miles of empty air that ended in ice and jagged rocks. A little mist would at times have been welcome.

  It was difficult to determine what time we arrived at the monastery hospice near the top of the pass. The mountains are so tall that the sun had been well behind them since shortly after noon, and we were all too tired to pay much attention in any case. As we rode through the gates onto the monastery grounds, I felt a jolt of energy, and I sat bolt upright on my mule with an exclamation.

  "What is it?" James asked.

  "I felt something," I said. "Magic, I think. Just as we entered."

  The brown-robed monk who had come forward to take hold of my mule's halter said something. James responded; the only part that was comprehensible to me were the names Julius Caesar and Napoleon Bonaparte.

  I dismounted carefully, as my legs were feeling decidedly wobbly. "What did he say?" I asked after a moment.

  "Just a minute," James said, and he and the monk continued their incomprehensible discussion. Finally, James turned to me and took my arm. As we walked across the courtyard toward the visitors' quarters, he said, "This monastery is very old—parts of it go back to Roman times, and perhaps even earlier, though our friend was a bit cagey about that part. I suppose there's a problem with his religious sensibilities. Anyway, the place is a well-known stop—there's some legend about Julius Caesar and his legions staying here on their way to conquer Rome, though I doubt it's true. Bonaparte wanted the hospice as a base. The monks didn't like the idea, so they arranged for him not to find it."

  "They arranged for him not to find it?"

  "The spell you felt when we came through the gate," James said. "It's some sort of misdirection or illusion spell— the monk wasn't specific. Very powerful. And clearly very effective."

  "It can't be all that effective, or we wouldn't have found the place ourselves," I pointed out.

  "The monastery is only hidden when the monks wish it," James said. "Or possibly it's only hidden from people they don't want here, or only from people of evil intent. The fellow I was talking to speaks the most abominable dialect."

  "I'm surprised he told you anything about the spell at all, if it's that important," I said.

  "Well, they can't exactly keep it a secret when every wizard who comes through the gates can feel it."

  We had come up with Kate and Thomas by this time, and Thomas heard the last of James's remark. "Feel what?" he asked. James explained, and Thomas nodded. "No, no, that monk was giving you a warning, as much as anything else."

  "Warning?" Kate said, yawning. "Of what?"

  "There are strong wards up to prevent casual visitors from studying the spells here too closely," Thomas replied. He looked at me. "If you pay careful attention, you can separate the feel of them from the main spell."

  James looked a trifle alarmed, until I said, "I suppose it wouldn't be wise to do any magic while we're here, then. I can't say I'm sorry; all I really want right now is dinner and a bed."

  The food we were served was plain, as one might expect from monks, but we devoured it and went to our beds. I confess to some misgivings, as at some of our earlier stops I had noticed Thomas carefully enchanting our quarters against fleas and other vermin. With the monastery's wards in place, such spells were, of course, not possible. However, the chamber proved quite clean and comfortable, if as plain as the food.

  I expected to sleep soundly after the long ride, but instead I tossed and turned for most of the night. I could not escape the feeling of being watched. When we roused next morning, it was plain that Thomas, at least, had been similarly afflicted.

  "Warding spells are all very well," he grumbled over the breakfast breads, "but it's going too far when they interfere with everyone's sleep."

  "Is that what the problem was?" I said.

  Kate and James looked at each other and shrugged. Thomas continued muttering until finally James said, "If you're that annoyed, complain to the abbot. I'm not the one who interrupted your sleep, and I don't see why I should be the one to suffer for it."

  "An excellent idea," Thomas said. He was quite cheerful for the remainder of the meal, and took himself off immediately afterward. We did not see him again until we gathered in the courtyard (rather later than we had anticipated) to begin the next stage of our journey. He turned up at the last minute, wearing an expression I would describe as somewhere between thoughtful and much too pleased with himself.

  "Well?" James said as the muleteers led out the mules once more and began the long process of readying them for the trail.

  "The abbot was appropriately apologetic," Thomas said. "At least, I'm fairly sure he was; his English wasn't much better than my Italian. We muddled through, nonetheless. Apparently there was a bit of a disturbance last week."

  "A magical disturbance?" I asked.

  Thomas nodded. "The monks added some extras to the warding spells to prevent a repeat, and we're the first magicians to come through since then. The abbot hadn't intended the improvements to be
quite so obvious, or so unsettling."

  "I'm sure he didn't," I said. "About that magical disturbance—you did ask, didn't you?"

  "Of course he asked," James said. "He's only being provoking for the fun of it."

  "There's very little to tell," Thomas said. All three of us gave him pointed looks, and he sighed theatrically. "Oh, very well. A group of travelers arrived last week, having crossed through the pass just as we did. In the night, one or more of them slipped down to the crypts under the monastery and... did something."

  "'Did something'?" I said. "You mean, cast a spell?"

  "More of a ritual with magical overtones, as far as I could tell," Thomas said. "The crypts are the most ancient part of the monastery. I suspect that if anything remains of the ancient Roman temple that was here before the monastery, that's where it is. They're forbidden to everyone but the monks, and the abbot was as upset by the trespass as by the peculiar goings-on that resulted from it."

  "And?" Kate said. Thomas looked at her. "What else did you find out?" she asked him. "You're too pleased with yourself for that to be everything. Were there traces of chrism in the crypts, or did the abbot tell you where Mr. Strangle is off to?"

  Thomas stared at her. "How do you keep doing that?" he said in a plaintive tone. "You're right, as usual—Harry Strangle and your young Mr. Daventer"—he nodded at me—"were among the travelers stopping here that night. Accompanied by an attractive young lady. The abbot did not approve."

  "I should think not!" I said.

  "It's a shame you couldn't get a look at the crypts," James said thoughtfully. "You might have learned even more."

  "I doubt it," Thomas said. "The monks purified the place next day; if there were any lingering traces of enchantment, they were dispelled then."

  "I had not realized that Mr. Strangle was that good a magician," I said.

  "He's not," Thomas said. "He barely deserves the name. Still, he has enough skill to contribute a bit when a spell needs more than one magician, and he's perfectly capable of triggering a preset enchantment. That and his lack of scruples are what make him useful to people like Sir Hilary. He's a perpetual hanger-on of coattails."

  "But whose coattail is he hanging on now that Sir Hilary is dead?" I asked. "And what do he and Theodore Daventer have to do with these peculiar rituals we keep running across?"

  Everyone looked at me. "Oh, come," I said. "You can't all have missed noticing that Mr. Strangle and Theodore were in Paris when someone broke into Sainte Chapelle and did a not-exactly-magic ritual there. Or that the abbot's account of the disruption here also fits that incident quite well."

  "And you said Mr. Strangle did something at that temple in Amiens," Kate said. "Though from your description it didn't sound as elaborate as the other two rituals."

  "It wasn't as elaborate a temple," I pointed out. "At least—I'm quite sure the Temple of Minerva Victrix doesn't compare to Sainte Chapelle, but I don't know about the monastery crypts."

  "If they're Roman, they're dark and narrow and low," Thomas said. "If they're earlier than that, they're even darker and narrower and lower."

  "Very helpful," James said in a tone that meant the exact opposite.

  Just at that point, the muleteers brought the mules forward at last, putting an end to the discussion for the time being. When we reached the accommodations on the far side of the Alps that evening, however, the discussion resumed. James seemed to think it his duty to remind everyone repeatedly that we did not actually know that Mr. Strangle was responsible for the break-in at Sainte Chapelle or the disturbance at the monastery. Despite this, he and Thomas agreed wholeheartedly that their first action on reaching Milan would be to track down Mr. Strangle.

  Next day, when we boarded the coaches hired to take us to Aosta, the talk turned to various methods they might use to accomplish this. They returned to the subject several times during the journey, and as a result, our travel time passed far more quickly than usual.

  Milan

  From the commonplace book of Lady Schofield

  1 October 1817

  Milan

  At our lodgings in the Via Santa Sofia

  My feet are warm again. It seems days since I could say as much. Not coincidentally, we've been in Milan for an afternoon and a night and a morning, and it was only a moment ago that I realized my feet were actually warm and dry. I thought I would record this novelty, so that someday when I am sweltering in the heat of summer, I can think back on this day and indulge in a pleasurable shiver. I admit it seems a remote possibility just at the moment.

  It is raining. That is why we are all of us still indoors this morning. When I use the word raining, it is because it is the word everyone else uses. I confess it seems a pale, insubstantial word compared with the deluge that has been falling since last night. This side of the mountains is much greener than the barren slopes on the French side, and I suppose these quantities of rain explain the difference in prospect.

  Lady Sylvia has sent one of her knitted missives to say that things are much as we left them in Paris. It took all four of us to decipher it. Cecy is almost always the quickest to guess the significance of the objects incorporated into the stitches. She was first to realize Lady Sylvia represents Thomas with a bit of peacock feather. But it was Thomas who solved the question of what the fishhook meant. (The Duke of Wellington, as it is a reference to his soldierly nickname, Old Hookey.)

  2 October 1817

  Milan

  At our lodgings in the Via Santa Sofia

  Thomas has arranged for us to go to the opera tonight. We are to see La Cenerentola, which I understand to be as near to Cinderella as makes no difference. Lord knows, I have seen Thomas looking extremely pleased with himself upon occasion, but when I thanked him for his thoughtfulness, he surpassed all previous efforts.

  3 October 1817

  Milan

  At our lodgings in the Via Santa Sofia

  Last night was simply splendid. We attended the opera, the four of us, in our full Parisian finery. It was, if anything, more enjoyable than last time, because I was not in the least worried about my own appearance. I couldn't be bothered to care who was looking greenly at us. There was the music. More than that, I was far from the only one there who had come to listen.

  As Paris is to pastry, La Scala is to opera. I cannot imagine that one could better La Scala and its audience. To behold those gilded boxes and the enormous stage fills me with joy, but alone they would make an empty paradise. It is the audience that makes it Heaven, all those people who know and care about the music. The throngs filling the seats are not invariably refined, and they are (I am told) almost never entirely respectful. Yet they know what they are hearing, and they appreciate it. Their criticisms can be unmistakable. I have been told sometimes they throw things to express their indignation at a poorly executed aria. What a world it would be if this level of critical appreciation were more widespread. If the chef sends up a badly cooked dinner, one could hurl a cabbage at his head by way of reply.

  No, on the whole, far better not to let such exacting standards escape the confines of the opera house.

  4 October 1817

  Milan

  At our lodgings in the Via Santa Sofia

  I knew that there would be sociability in Paris. I never expected that we would find sociability in Milan, at least, not so readily. It seems that the British Consul had been alerted to our arrival so there were invitations waiting for us by the time we arrived. At the Consul's residence, we were introduced to some of the prominent residents of the city, and more invitations followed in short order.

  Mail was waiting for us, too. It has been a pleasure to take paper and pen and ink pot to write a simple letter home. Much less arduous than the work I have been putting into my knitted replies to Lady Sylvia. I refuse to try to knit an account of going to the opera.

  N.B. Where is my good left glove? I can't have lost it. I do seem to have lost the last of Aunt Charlotte's handkerchiefs. Luckily, I bought
more in Paris.

  5 October 1817

  Milan

  At our lodgings in the Via Santa Sofia

  We now have been to La Cenerentola twice. There was also a work by Gritti, Caterina Sforza, but one performance of that was enough to convince Thomas that we did not need to see or hear or even think of it ever again. The La Scala audience was even more exacting than Thomas, and the Gritti production has closed, as preparations begin to replace it with an opera by Pacini.

  My time at the opera was golden. Even the hours before and after seemed filled with music. Once the rain stopped, the weather warmed delightfully, so we could have the windows open in our rooms. Each morning bells and birdsong wake us. Every street vendor seems to make a song of his wares, and everyone who sings can carry a tune. Thomas does not seem as enchanted by this phenomenon as I am, but despite the occasional complaint, he never gets up to close the windows.

  7 October 1817

  Milan

  At our lodgings in the Via Santa Sofia

  Upon our arrival, Thomas and James did their utmost to locate Mr. Strangle through persistent inquiry. I am sure that they would have succeeded in time. They didn't have a fair chance to demonstrate the excellence of their methods, as pure luck forestalled them.

  Fortunately, among the invitations we received after enjoying the hospitality of the British Consul was one from the Conte and Contessa di Monti to a garden party to be held in the grounds of a fine estate near the city. It was a fete to salute the generosity of the Conte di Capodoro, who had just announced the donation of his collection of Roman and Etruscan antiquities to the city of Milan for the enjoyment of her people. The Conte and his Contessa were honored guests, and we joined the local notables in congratulating them on their philanthropy.

  It was a fine day, unseasonably warm, so there was no excuse to linger indoors. I was disappointed by this, as I'd hoped for more chance to admire the villa itself. Instead, we were escorted to the fine gardens, where we were greeted by our host, the Conte di Monti, who does something important for the Hapsburgs, and his Contessa, our hostess. They introduced us in turn to their guests, the Conte and Contessa di Capodoro among them. The Conte and Contessa di Monti were like a pair of Persian cats, both with flowing white hair and pleased expressions.