The Wizard of London (11 page)

All
that Nan could think of to say was—“Ah.”

“Still,
I think it was a bit rude of him to have been so impatient with his
mother,” she continued, a little irritated.

“I
‘spose that magic-man friend of yours is right,” Nan replied
finally. “About what you c’n do, I mean.”

“Oh!
You’re right!” Sarah exclaimed. “But you know, I don’t
think I could have done it if Grey hadn’t been there. I thought if I ever
saw a spirit I’d be too scared to do anything, but I wasn’t afraid,
since she wasn’t.”

The
parrot took a little piece of Sarah’s hair in her beak and preened it.

“Wise
bird,” replied Grey.

***

Isabelle
sat holding her friend’s hand, as the police sergeant questioned her in a
painstaking but ponderous manner. Isabelle felt obscurely sorry for Katherine;
it was a difficult thing to have to admit that you had given your trust to
someone who had then not only abused it, but done so in such a fashion as to
make you look incredibly foolish. As Katherine reluctantly admitted the large
sums of money she had pressed into “Madame’s” hands—probably,
Mem’sab reflected, with all the fervent devotion of a religious
convert—she flushed and looked acutely uncomfortable until even the
policeman noticed.

“Begging
your pardon, mum,” he said apologetically, “But we have to hev
these particulars down in the report, or we can’t prosecute the woman
properly. This’s theft, it is, and no two ways about it, as I’m
sure the magistrate will say.”

Well,
while it might morally be theft, it actually was fraud under the law, and if
Katherine hadn’t been wealthy and highly connected, Isabelle very much
doubted whether this police sergeant would be bringing it up to a magistrate on
such charges.

But
she was both of those things, and the upshot of that was that
Madame—based on the amount of money she had taken—would probably be
in prison for the rest of her life or, at least, would be transported to
Australia.

Even
more uncomfortable for Katherine was divulging the names of her other wealthy,
titled, or connected friends who had been fleeced by this fraud. That was worse
than embarrassment, it was very nearly social suicide. Katherine would have to
live in India for another five years before people like Lady Harrington forgot
who had been the cause of common police appearing at her door to question
her—and the ensuing embarrassment on her part of discovering she had been
taken in by such a fraud.

Still,
there was nothing for it, and if Lady Harrington had been the one who had
introduced Katherine to Madame in the first place, perhaps her annoyance would
be tempered by guilt.

Finally,
the police released them all, and Katherine fled to the safety and seclusion of
her carriage, looking utterly shattered.

“She
should have thanked you at least, Mem’sab,” said Selim gravely, as
the carriage rolled away into the darkness. Frederick had gone to look for a
cab with Agansing, leaving her with the third of the guardians.

“Well,
I can’t say as I am surprised that she did not,” Isabelle admitted.
“She was one of the girls I went to school with, one in whom Elemental
Magic burns very dimly. We tended to be thrown together within the group of the
Gifted and the Talented on that account, you see; I had none of their Magic,
and she had very little. But I did have
something
quite powerful that
demanded a certain amount of respect. I may have been less than circumspect in
my conversations about my powers, and as a consequence, I believe poor
Katherine got some unrealistic notions about occult abilities.”

“And
yet Missy Sarah has them,” Selim observed.

“Hmm.”
Isabella’s lips compressed. “I fear that if Katherine makes this
known, the consequences will be some exceedingly intrusive and unwanted
attention on all of us. There are many bereaved people in the world, none of
whom really wishes
to
know that a loved one has moved on and left them
behind.”

“One
cannot blame them,” Selim replied. “But it would be hard on Missy
Sarah to be the one to suffer at the hands of their need.”

The
sound that emerged from Isabelle’s throat was of a laugh with no humor in
it. “And there is not one in a thousand of them who will consider that
asking a very young child to perform mediumistic work is both cruel and
uncaring. Each of them is so enwrapped in her grief—for it is
predominantly women who flock to mediums—that nothing else is of
consequence.”

“They
would be better off seeking solace in the arms of their religion, and leave the
child out of it.” Selim’s tone was grim.

“Well,
they will be leaving the child out of it, because we are her guardians, and I
have no intention of allowing her to do any such thing.” Isabelle’s
tone was just as grim as Selim’s. “Ah! Here is Sahib with our
cab!”

The
short journey back was conducted mostly in silence. It was Isabelle who finally
broke it. “I know I thanked you all before—but now I have to thank
you again, with the full knowledge of what foolishly rushing in to this
situation could have brought me to.” In fact, she felt a bit shaken and
rather humbled at this point. It was painfully clear that at the least, she,
the girls, and Katherine could have been harmed, and at worst—

“And
who was it, Mem’sab, that kept me from believing I could brave the temple
of Kalima alone?” asked Agansing.

“Or
insisted that if I
would
go to meet that fakir, it would be while I
was under the eye of my friends?” said Selim.

“Or
told me to go direct to Bhurka Singh with my suspicions instead of allowing
them to fester,” added Karamjit, his teeth gleaming in a white smile in
the shadows of the cab.

“Or
kept me from rushing into a hundred foolish ventures,” Frederick
concluded, with his arms around her. “This is what it means to be human,
as I quite recall you saying the last time I came home with a broken head. You
succeed, you become a trifle overconfident, and at that point it is the duty of
your friends to haul you back and point out the edge of the cliff at your
feet.”

“Well,
nevertheless,” she said, feeling a little better and a trifle less
stupid. “Thank you.”

“Nevertheless,”
said Frederick, with a squeeze, “You are welcome. Provided you continue
to do me the same good turn, my love.”

And somehow, that
made her feel very much better indeed.

NAN sat on the foot
of Sarah’s bed, with her feet curled up under her flannel nightgown to
keep them warm. Sarah Jane’s parrot Grey lay flat on Sarah’s chest,
eyes closed, cuddling like a kitten. Warm light from an oil lamp mounted on the
wall beside the bed poured over all of them. It wasn’t a very big room,
just room for Nan’s bed and Sarah Jane’s, a perch with cups screwed
to it for food and water and a selection of toys hanging from it for Grey, and
a wardrobe and chests for their clothes and things. If the wallpaper was old
and faded, and the rugs on the floor threadbare, it was still a thousand times
better than any place that Nan had ever lived in—and as for Sarah, well,
she was used to a mission and hospital in the middle of the jungle, and their
little room was just as foreign to her as it was to Nan, though in entirely
different ways.

While
only little Sarah had a pet from “home,” there were plenty of pets
acquired here in England for the other children. To make sure that the children
never forgot those who had sent them here, other reminders of absent parents
were encouraged here, and there was a supply of paper, ink, and penny stamps in
each room. Most schools encouraged letters—so long as they were written
in class where the teacher could ostensibly check for spelling, grammar, and
penmanship, but in reality making sure nothing uncomplimentary about the school
or the teachers went out through the mails. There was a great deal of laughter
in the Harton School, and the lessons learned were all the surer for it.

And
that was the least of the eccentricities here, in a school where not all of the
lessons were about what could be seen with the ordinary eye.

Nan
was alone in not wanting reminders of her family; she had no idea who her
father was, and her mother had finally descended (last Nan had heard) to the
lowest rung on the social ladder her type could reach, that of a street whore in
Whitechapel. She roamed the streets now with everything she owned on her back,
without even a garret or cellar room, or even an under-stairs cubbyhole to call
her own, satisfying first her craving for drink, before looking for the extra
penny for a bed or a meal. She would probably die soon, of bad gin, of cold and
exposure, of disease, or of everything at once as her chronically-damaged body
gave out. Nan had neither time nor pity for her. After all, it had been her
gran that had mostly raised her, not her mam, who’d only been interested
in the money Nan brought in by begging.

Sarah
had a very special sort of bond with Grey—who Sarah insisted was a great
deal more than “just” a parrot. Nan was in wholehearted agreement
with that estimation at this point—after all, it was no more difficult to
believe in than to believe that wolves could adopt a mancub, and Nan was
convinced of the truth of Mr.Kipling’s stories.

Sarah
had a new set of lessons, now that they had learned she could on occasion, talk
with, and see, the dead. This could be a very dangerous ability, so
Mem’sab had told Nan, who had appointed herself as Sarah’s
protector.

Well,
if Nan and Grey had anything to say about the matter, danger would have to pass
through them to reach Sarah.

“Nan
tickle,” Grey demanded in her funny little voice, eyes still closed;
Sarah was using both hands to support the bird on her chest, which left no
hands free to give Grey the scratch she wanted.

Nan
obliged by crawling up to the head of the bed, settling in beside her friend
and scratching the back of Grey’s neck. It was a very gentle
scratch—indeed, more like the “tickle” Grey had asked for
than the kind of vigorous scratching one would give a dog or a tough London
cat—for Nan had known instinctively from the moment that Grey permitted
Nan to touch her that a bird’s skin is a very delicate thing. Of all of
the people in the school, only Nan, Mem’sab, Sahib himself, and Agansing
were permitted by Grey to do more than take her on a hand. Sarah, of course, could
do anything she liked with the bird.

“Wish’t
Oi had a friend loike you, Grey,” Nan told the bird wistfully, the
remnants of her Cockney accent still clinging to her speech despite hours and
hours of lessons. The parrot opened one yellow eye and gave her a long and unreadable
look.

“Kitty?”
Grey suggested, but Nan shook her head.

“Not
a moggy,” she replied. “Mind, Oi loike moggies, but—Oi dunno,
a moggy don’t seem roight. Not clever ‘nuff.”

Sarah
laughed. “Then you must not be a witch after all,” she teased.
“A witch’s familiar is always a cat, or a toad—”

Nan
made a face. “Don’ want no toads!” she objected. “So Oi
guess Oi ain’t no witch, no matter what that Tommy Carpenter says!”

Tommy,
a recent addition to the school, had somehow made up his mind that she, Sarah,
and Mem’sab were all witches. He didn’t mean it in a derogatory
sense; in fact, he gave them all the utmost respect. It had something to do
with things his own ayah back in India had taught him. Nan had to wonder, given
whom he’d singled out for that particular accolade, if he wouldn’t
be getting private lessons of his own with Mem’sab before too long. There
was something just a little too knowing about the way Tommy looked at some
people.

“But
Oi still wisht Oi ‘ad—had—a bird friend loike Grey.”
And she sighed again. Grey reached around with her beak and gently took one of
Nan’s fingers in it; Grey’s equivalent, so Nan had learned, of a
hug. “Well,” she said, when Grey had let go, “Mebbe someday.
Lots’ve parrots comes in with sailors.”

“That’s
right!” Sarah said warmly, letting go of Grey just long enough to give
Nan a hug of her own, before changing the subject. “Nan, promise to tell
me all about the Tower as soon as you get back tomorrow! I wish I could
go—maybe as much as you wish you had a grey parrot of your own.”

“
‘Course Oi will!” Nan replied warmly. “Oi wisht you could go,
too—but you know why Mem’sab said not.” She shuddered, but it
was the delicious shudder of a child about to be regaled with delightfully
scary ghost stories, without a chance of turning around and discovering that
the story had transmuted to reality.

For
Sarah, however, the possibility was only too real that, even by daylight, that
very thing would happen. It was one thing to provide the vehicle for a little
child ghost who had returned only to comfort his mother. It was something else
entirely to contemplate Sarah coming face-to-face with one of the many unhappy,
tragic, or angry spirits said to haunt the Tower of London. Mem’sab was
not willing to chance such an encounter, not until Sarah was old enough to
protect herself.

So
the History class would be going to the Tower for a special tour with one of
the Yeoman Warders without Sarah.

Sarah
sighed again. “I know. And I know Mem’sab is right. But I still
wish I could go, too.”

Nan
laughed. “Wut! An you gettin’ ‘t’ go’t’
Sahib’s warehouse an’ pick out whatever you want, on account of
missin’ the treat?”

“Yes,
but—” she made a face. “Then I have to write an essay about
it to earn it!”

“An’
we’re all writin’ essays ‘bout the Tower, so I reckon
it’s even all around, ’cept we don’t get no keepsakes.”
Nan ended the discussion firmly.

“I
know! I’ll pick a whole chest of Turkish Delight, then we can all have a
treat, and I’ll have the chest,” Sarah said suddenly, brightening
up in that way she had that made her solemn little face just fill with light.