02 The Grand Tour Read online

  "It certainly looked as if it did. I wish I'd saved the wrapping paper it came in, but it went to kindle the fire." I ran a cautious finger along the edge of the fabric. "What sort of charm is it?"

  Thomas looked disgruntled. "It's a protective charm, the sort of thing one might use to protect the simplicity of the young."

  "Cecy said it had to do with truth. Seeing things as they are."

  "Yes, that's right. And that makes no sense whatever. Who would bother to send you an anonymous parcel containing a gift meant to protect you from the cheats and liars of this world?"

  "There must be more to it," I said. "Perhaps the protective spell is concealing something else?"

  "I suppose anything is possible." Thomas picked the shawl up and handed it to Reardon as if it smelt bad. "Keep that somewhere safe, please. I don't want to destroy it just yet. There's a chance it might prove useful, if we once find out who sent it and why."

  "I'll put it away," said Reardon.

  When she had left us alone, I handed my damaged glove over and made a full confession to Thomas, up to and including the fact that Cecy now knew about his focus.

  "It can't be helped," said Thomas. "She's never going to forgive me for contriving to get James shot, is she?"

  "Never," I was forced to agree. "But as matters stand, I think she's willing to overlook it for now."

  Thomas sighed a little. "That's lucky, I suppose. I'll just have to make it up to her somehow. And to James, of course," Thomas added, plainly as an afterthought.

  "Is it something I'm doing?" I asked. "Is there something about the focus that I'm not doing properly?"

  Thomas traced the burnt mark in the leather. "I need to do a bit of research first, but I think there's a spell that will put a stop to this. It should be quite straightforward. Still, I'm taking no chances. It's nothing you are doing or not doing, Kate. Just double that order of gloves and soldier on."

  I fixed Thomas with my best glare. "You aren't going to tell me, are you?"

  Thomas winced but said nothing.

  I kept up the glare. "Just as you never told me the result of the test Lady Sylvia gave me. But you would tell me, wouldn't you, if it were something important?"

  I saw the exact moment Thomas surrendered. His eyes dropped and he took my hand. "Kate—"

  I waited for him to go on. Patience was easy now that I knew he saw things from my point of view.

  "There are two things you must understand. The first is that talent runs in families," Thomas said, meeting my eyes again at last. "You know that."

  I nodded.

  Thomas chose his words with evident care. "It's like blood horses. Sometimes a horse can win a dozen races and sire a dozen runners that win high stakes in their turn. But sometimes the speed doesn't come out in the next generation. Sometimes it waits for the generation after that."

  "Like Eclipse," I said. "His sire, Marske, was nothing like as fast as he was."

  Thomas stared at me.

  "Grandfather's library was my favorite spot on rainy days," I explained. "He had every volume of the Stud Book."

  "Of course he did," said Thomas dryly. "I might have known he would."

  "Yes, he did far better gambling at the racetrack than he ever did at the tables. So you believe that our children will inherit talent from both sides of the family," I said. I have given our children a great deal of thought, at least the idea of our children, but this aspect of the situation had never occurred to me.

  "That may well be, but I—"

  Much struck by this novel idea, I didn't let Thomas finish. "I suppose we must take great pains to engage a nurse who is prepared for such an eventuality."

  "Excellent notion," said Thomas, "but that's not—"

  "I'd better mention it to James and Cecy, too," I went on. "Only think what their nursery will be like."

  "I'd rather not," said Thomas. "Do come back to racehorses, Kate, just for a moment. What I'm trying to say is, sometimes the speed doesn't show at first."

  "Eclipse was never trained at all until he was five," I said, "but I don't believe it was because they didn't think he was fast."

  "I take it back," said Thomas. "Forget Eclipse. Forget horses. What I'm trying to tell you is that we don't know whether your talent has fully developed yet or not."

  "But I don't have any talent," I reminded him.

  "You don't have any interest in cultivating your talent," Thomas countered. "That's a different matter, and one Mother and I have tried quite hard to leave in your hands. But talent runs in your family."

  "Perhaps," I said, "but it doesn't run in me."

  "Talent without cultivation is useless. It is without form and void. There is no pattern to it. Like the spark one sometimes strikes, sometimes not, when one touches a metal doorknob after walking on a wool carpet." Thomas took my hand. At the gentle concern in his expression, I felt a rising tide of dismay.

  "It can be a great inconvenience." Thomas's voice was hushed, as if he were delivering very bad news indeed. "Like spilling things."

  "That's my talent?" I cried, pulling away. "Clumsiness?"

  "That can be a sign you have talent," Thomas answered. "It isn't the talent itself. But it's a good sign."

  "Good?" I regarded Thomas with something near dislike. "What's good about it?"

  "Bouncers, Kate." Thomas reminded me. "You are able to make people accept some of the remarkable things you say as truth, in defiance of all laws of probability and common sense."

  "I do lie rather well," I conceded.

  "I regret to inform you that you're nothing out of the ordinary as a storyteller," Thomas stated. "But you have a useful way of winning the confidence of those who listen to you. You make them willing to believe you."

  "Lying? I have a talent for falsehood?" I was good at being clumsy and at telling lies. Things grew worse and worse. No wonder Lady Sylvia kept it from me.

  Thomas tugged at his neckcloth. "Forget your talent. I'm sorry I ever mentioned it. I'm trying to say that it is too soon to be sure of anything concerning your talent, and we'll never know if you don't cultivate it. Neglected talent can cause strange things to happen. What you call your clumsiness may very well have such an explanation. Now, for the second thing."

  I had almost forgotten there was a second thing. "There's more?"

  Thomas patted my hand. "Don't look so stricken. It isn't you. It's me. And I think it explains what happens with your ring."

  "It's you?"

  Thomas nodded. "I think so. You see, there is a connection between us. On all sorts of levels. But in this case, it is a dangerous one. You remember Sir Hilary and his epicyclical elaborations?"

  I remembered what Cecy had told me of Sir Hilary's attempts (some successful) to drain others of their magical ability to enhance his own power. "Yes."

  Thomas had gone very gentle again. "It is possible for a magician to use power that belongs to someone else. Whether you choose to use it or not, Kate, you have power. With the connection that exists between us, it would be perilously easy for me to draw on your power as well as my own. I never want that to happen. I have taken steps to prevent that from happening. But I think there must be times when my magic strikes a kind of spark with your inborn talent. It is my hypothesis that one outward sign of such an occasion is the scorching and discoloration you've detected."

  I tried to rephrase what he was telling me. "You use your focus and it burns my glove. So were you using magic at the opera?"

  "Nothing was further from my mind. It is not necessarily when I am using my magic. It is when my power meets yours. Think of a duck pond. Toss a stone into it and what do you get?"

  "A wet stone," I replied promptly.

  Thomas scowled at me. "Oh, very droll. You get a wet stone and you get ripples, Kate. Concentric rings as the ripples move outward from the stone. Now, then. What do you get when you toss in two stones at the same time?"

  "More ripples?"

  Thomas looked delighted. "Exactly. Two s
ets of concentric rings—where my set of ripples meets your set of ripples is the point—in my hypothesis, at least—where your glove comes into it."

  I searched for words. At last, I managed, "Why can't I feel it, then? I felt it when you created the focus. I felt it when you were sick in the coach. Why don't I feel it when the ring burns my glove?"

  Thomas took my hand. "I don't know. Perhaps because it happens when we cancel one another out? I'm glad you don't feel it, though. What if it caused you pain?" He traced the shape of our wedding band with the tip of his finger.

  We sat together in silence for a long time. The only sound in the room was the fire in the hearth.

  Eventually I brought my thoughts back to the subject. "If being clumsy is a sign of magical potential, why wasn't Cecy ever clumsy? What about you? How did your talent manifest itself?"

  "I believed I could fly." Thomas looked embarrassed. "Fortunately, I had an extremely vigilant nurse. Beyond the very minimum of broken bones, there was no harm done. But it wasn't clumsiness that broke my leg. It was overweening pride."

  His humble expression was so out of character it was all I could do not to laugh aloud. "You, Thomas? Proud? Never!"

  "It's still a failing of mine," Thomas confessed. "It comes on me sometimes." He looked deep into my eyes.

  "Does it?" I was ready for Thomas to make a joke of it, the way he stared at me so intently.

  "Just now and then. When I think of you." There was not a trace of mockery in Thomas's eyes, and his voice grew just a little ragged. "You make me proud."

  30 October 1817

  Venice

  Palazzo Flangini

  What a relief to be safely back home at our hired edifice. I have just changed into dry clothes. By the time I finish roasting my toes by the fire, I may feel comfortable again. By that time, however, dinner will surely be served, so I will catch up writing this journal in the interim, and wriggle my toes luxuriously between paragraphs.

  The use of Uncle Arthur's name during James's unsuccessful call upon Cavalier Leo Coducci has borne fruit, for we received a formal invitation to visit Mr. Coducci this afternoon, only a day after his return to Venice. The rain has been relentless, but we splashed our way there with great promptitude.

  Mr. Coducci received us in a grand salon that gave the impression of being crowded, even though he was the only person in the room. The furniture was fine, although sparse, but most of the marble floor was taken up with statuary, a few authentically Greek, more Roman, and the rest modern copies. Mr. Coducci's collection of antiquities is very fine, I'm sure. Nevertheless, I found it a trifle disturbing. Imagine Medusa with a voucher for Almack's Assembly. Once she turned everyone she beheld to stone, the effect would be very like Mr. Coducci's grand salon.

  It is clear that Mr. Coducci thinks very highly of Uncle Arthur. His hospitality was as remarkable as his erudition. Before long he and James were on easy terms, and their discussion left the rest of us in the dust. Fortunately, the dust featured excellent refreshments. I had a chance to look around the room as I sipped my glass of ratafia. One wall of the salon was all windows that looked out over the Grand Canal. The other walls were hung with mirrors. Not only did this enhance the amount of light in the room, even on a rainy autumn day, it also multiplied the apparent number of statues.

  While Cecy and I admired the view from the windows, Thomas seemed to be fascinated by the veining of the marble on the floor. I wondered why. It was a perfectly good floor, but I could see nothing to merit Thomas's particular interest.

  Belatedly, I noticed the flush of embarrassment on Thomas's cheeks. It takes a good deal to embarrass Thomas in public. I took a closer look at the statuary, to see if I'd missed anything. At last it occurred to me to look up at the ceiling.

  It was a high ceiling, but not so high that anyone with normal eyesight could mistake the goings-on painted among the billowing clouds of the fresco. It was a pagan holiday up there, with no convenient bits of drapery to conceal the details, no sprays of foliage, not even a fig leaf. I trust it was all exceedingly authentic. I really couldn't say. I only know my cheeks grew hot with my blushes. After the first moment of disbelief, I kept my eyes on the floor as assiduously as Thomas did. I only hoped Cecy wouldn't notice and ask me what was wrong. I didn't think I could answer suitably in such mixed company.

  Now I come to think of it, I find that a curious reaction on my part. If I had been alone with Thomas, I would not have been so terribly embarrassed by the painting. If I had been alone with Cecy, very likely I would have giggled at it. Even if it had been Thomas and me viewing the fresco with Cecy and James, I would have been less abashed. It was the presence of Mr. Coducci, as amiable as he was venerable, that made me so uncomfortable. Yet it was Mr. Coducci's fresco. How strange we are, or, rather, how peculiar manners make us.

  From the deposition of Mrs. James Tarleton, &c.

  Fortunately, Cavalier Coducci did not return to Venice before I was allowed to resume my usual routine. I would have been most put out had I been forced to miss talking with him when I did not feel the least bit indisposed. His prompt invitation to visit did much to restore my spirits, which were sadly cast down by the failure of my attempt to create a focus. I went over and over the attempt in my mind, and I was quite positive that I had performed every step correctly.

  Nonetheless, it had plainly not worked. I even wondered whether I was, after all, truly suited to be a magician.

  Thomas was no help, though I admit he was more than usually forbearing when it came to commenting on the matter. The first thing he did when I was at last allowed to rise from my bed was to present me with a pouch containing, he said, the dust that was all that remained of the writing desk.

  "It's safer with you," he told me when I protested. "It's your magic that made it, after all."

  "Safer?" I said. "What do you mean?"

  "In the hands of anyone else, it will affect the laws of probability," Thomas said. "Rather drastically, I suspect, given how much effort it took to clear it all out. It shouldn't bother you at all, because it's still attuned to you."

  "Am I going to have to cart this around forever?" I said, eyeing the bag with disfavor. I did not add, "The way you had to cart that chocolate pot?" because I did not wish to give him more of an opening.

  "I'll work out some way of reducing it," Thomas assured me. "But we can't do anything until we're out of this palazzo. We'll want an area for the spell casting that's completely clear on the arcane levels, and this place won't be magically clear for months."

  I found his use of "we" reassuring. Nevertheless, I was pleased to have our visit to Cavalier Coducci to distract me from my thoughts.

  At first glance, Cavalier Coducci seemed nearly as much an antiquity as his collection. He had a thick shock of white hair and a mustache that, while neatly trimmed, was equally thick. Most of his energy seemed to have gone into producing hair; the rest of him was thin and slightly stooped. (He also quite clearly had no more notion than Papa of which antiquities are suitable for public display. Though I must add that I had never before seen quite so many entirely unsuitable antiquities in one place. Their existence in such numbers gives one a very odd impression of the ancients, if one stops to think.)

  He and James hit it off at once, and they seemed quite happy to go through the whole crowded salon one piece at a time, comparing the execution and history of each and every statue (in English, though I was not certain whether or not to be thankful for that, as it meant that I could not justify ignoring the discussion on the grounds of unintelligibility). I was about to abandon them in favor of the thoughtfully provided refreshments, when James particularly complimented one of the statues.

  Cavalier Coducci smiled and shrugged. "It is fine, yes, but please do not be too generous with your praise. These are only the most ordinary of my collection."

  James gave him a look of polite incredulity. "If these are ordinary, the main part must be impressive indeed."

  "Only if you ha
ve a curiosity about the arcane," Cavalier Coducci said a little uncomfortably. "It is not an area that interests many antiquarians, I fear, and there are many disagreements among those few of us who concentrate our efforts on it."

  "I shouldn't think you'd find much to work with," James commented. "The Romans abandoned magic quite early in favor of engineering, which, if I recall correctly, they considered more reliable. And the few Greek texts make it quite clear that what little magic they succeeded in doing was based primarily on word rituals rather than on objects. That wouldn't seem to leave you much to collect."

  Cavalier Coducci's face lit with a fervor that I recognized all too easily, having seen it often in Papa's expression. "The Greeks and the Romans are not the only ancient peoples of interest. It is a limitation, a most unwise and unnecessary limitation, to look no further back than Greece or Rome."

  "I suppose the Egyptians were in many ways as civilized as either," James acknowledged. "Likewise the Babylonians."

  "Egyptians? Babylonians? Bah!" Cavalier Coducci waved his hand, dismissing them. "In arcane matters, the Egyptians had some awareness, I grant you. But the true ancient magics were not civilized."

  "Do you mean the Etruscans, then?" I said. "Or the Gaulish tribes or... or..." I struggled to remember one of the other groups Papa had mentioned.

  James came to my rescue. "Germanic tribes," he murmured softly. "Goths and Visigoths."

  "Or the Goths, or the Germanic tribes?" I finished.

  Cavalier Coducci beamed at me. "Yes, yes, exactly!" he said. "Not civilized, and of course with no knowledge of the modern techniques that have made magic reliable, but practitioners of a sort nevertheless."

  "Practitioners, perhaps, but so little of their writing has been preserved—and so little was written down to begin with—that it is practically impossible to know what they actually did," James said. "Like the Druids; all we know of them is from Roman writings, and some of those were plainly unreliable."

  "Ah, one must know where to look!" Cavalier Coducci rubbed his hands together. "Come, I will show you. Come, come!" He beckoned to Kate and Thomas, then led the four of us down a marble-floored hall and up a flight of stairs at the back of the palazzo. A chain of rooms stuffed with books and more antiquities brought us finally to a large, high-windowed room lined with glass-fronted cabinets and filled with lavishly carved tables. Most of the tables were covered with polished rocks and bits of wood; the nearest cabinets held chunks of clay and an occasional lumpy object like a child's attempt at a statue.