Grayling's Song(20)

Desdemona Cork twitched her shawl, and Sylvanus looked at no one else. “An enchantress, I see,” he said to her with an awkward bow. “And very . . . well, enchanting, I find.” He waved his hand, and a large green bush near the path burst into bloom with creamy soft flowers. He slinked closer to her and presented her with a spice-scented bloom. “Sylvanus Vetch at your service, my lady—Brother Doctor Sylvanus Vetch, illustrious scholar, celebrated magician, and esteemed practitioner of tyromancy, or divination with cheese.”

Desdemona Cork took the flower with a frown that was yet as lovely as any smile Grayling had seen, and Auld Nancy snorted. “Peace, Sylvanus! ’Tis not Desdemona Cork you should be attending but Grayling, who will tell you from the beginning what has befallen us.”

And Grayling did. Her tongue was tired of telling the tale, and she was no closer to freeing Hannah Strong and the others than she had been at the start. But now Brother Doctor Sylvanus Vetch, who had called himself illustrious, celebrated, and esteemed, was here. Looking at the weepy, bony fellow gaping at Desdemona Cork, Grayling tried to bury her doubts. Perhaps their fortunes would change now for the better.

“Alas, alas,” said Sylvanus when Grayling had finished. He wiped his drippy eyes and nose on his sleeve. “To think the world is in such a state! I have heard rumors that the faculty of Nether Finchbeck is now a grove of hornbeam trees, grimoires and scrolls have been taken, and the students guzzle ale as they make vague and unsuitable rescue plans.” Tears overflowed his eyes and disappeared into his beard until they emerged drop by drop at the bottom. “Alas, alas, oh, woe and sadness. ’Tis true that ‘only the busy bee has no time for sorrow.’”

“Rumors? Only rumors? How did you not know, you who call yourself illustrious scholar and more?” Auld Nancy asked. “And how is it you, too, are not rooted to the ground?” She narrowed her eyes and peered at him.

He snuffled one last great snuffle and said, “Belike because I was not here. I was somewhere else. Somewhere”—he gestured vaguely toward the clouds—“else.”

Grayling looked up to the sky but saw only sky.

Desdemona Cork asked, “Why have you, with the magic to make flowers bloom, not vanquished the evil force and made things right again?”

Pansy said, “Are you truly from Nether Finchbeck?”

Grayling broke in. “Do you, sir, have such a thing as a grimoire?”

With a great harrumph, Sylvanus said, “Nay, I have no need of a book for my spells. All my knowledge is stored here.” He tapped his head with a bony finger.

“Likely that is why you have not been rooted,” said Grayling.

Sylvanus smoothed his beard, smiled, and said, “Be of good cheer, fair mistresses. After hearing your sad tale, I shall favor you with my company for a time.”

Company? Just company? “Can you do nothing to help?” Grayling asked him. “About the rooted folk and the grimoires, the smoke and shadow and the mysterious wind? Do you have no useful skills?”

The magician’s eyes snapped. “I cannot combat the evil force until I know what it is,” he said, “where it is from, why it was sent. That will take cogitation, consideration, contemplation, rumination. I cannot be hurried.”

Grayling was not satisfied, but Sylvanus turned from her and whistled. A small spotted mule trotted out from between the trees. Pook? Is it Pook? Is he now Pook the mule? Grayling patted the herbs in her basket and was relieved to feel the shape of a sleeping toad. Nay, not Pook.

Sylvanus tightened the saddlebags that clanked against the mule’s rough and dusty sides. “Shall we depart?”

Grayling, Auld Nancy, Desdemona Cork, and Pansy looked at each other, at Sylvanus, and then back at each other. Finally Auld Nancy shrugged and nodded.

As Sylvanus started to climb onto the mule, Grayling pulled on his tunic. “Do you not think,” she asked in a soft voice, “Auld Nancy might ride? Her bones pain her something fierce.”

“Nay,” said Auld Nancy, with a shake of her head. “Better for the beast to carry Pansy. She is most pale and frail-looking of a sudden, though I cannot think why.”

Pansy was to ride? Grayling thought that would be excellent, if only Pansy would ride elsewhere. Away. Anywhere but there.

“Foolish coddling,” said Sylvanus, grabbing the mule’s lead. “The girl is young enough to be strong and hardy. As they say, ‘a new shoe lasts longer than an old.’ Why, in my day, we not only did not ride mules, we sometimes carried them on our shoulders, for animals were precious and to be cared for, whereas we teemed with young people.” He combed his beard thoughtfully with his fingers. “I remember once when I had two beasts to pack over the Hermantine Pass in winter—”

“Enough,” Auld Nancy said, and she shook her broom at him. “Enough talk from you. Hailstones and thunder clouds! I don’t know if you have more words or more tears, but they both try my patience.”

Sylvanus scowled while Pansy climbed onto the mule. “What be in here?” Pansy asked, poking the saddlebags. “They do be lumpy and uncomfortable under a rider.”

“Leave off my belongings, wretched girl,” said Sylvanus, and he swatted her hands away. Pansy snorted and settled onto the mule’s back.

Auld Nancy was right, Grayling thought. Pansy definitely ailed. She’d lost her rosy plumpness. Her eyes were ringed with shadows, and she hadn’t whined or mentioned food in minutes.