“How d’you do?” replied a fellow whose trim mustache lay so crookedly above his lip, Gabriel wanted to bring out a ruler and razor blade to fix it. “Pimmersby, at your service. Have you come for the fun?”
“Fun?” Gabriel repeated.
“The magic, of course. Such frabjous excitement! Calloo! Callay! ‘Airy abeles set on a flare! Flake-doves sent floating forth—’ ”
Bloody hell. The fellow was either an incoherent lunatic or a humanities student. (Gabriel did not always find it easy to spot the difference.) “You mean the manifestations of dangerous, unconstrained thaumaturgic energy,” he said, frowning severely.
“Yes, exactly! Hapsitch and I were en route to Oxford for Noughth Week when we heard the news and turned around at once. Mumbers here was holidaying in Aberystwyth—”
“Spot of pleurisy,” the aforementioned Mumbers interposed with a cheerful smile. “My phrenologist says damp sea air’s the best cure for it.”
“—and the Misses Trevallion abandoned an exploration of Tintern Abbey. No longer did they ‘repose here, under this dark sycamore,’ but instead came, er, here…”
“And where were you when you heard about the hijinks?”one of the Misses asked Gabriel in a voice that lifted its hem coyly and flashed a silk-stockinged question mark.
Gabriel’s frown deepened fromsevereto the level ofPuritan at Christmas. “I was in my office in Merton College when informed by the Home Office about Dôlylleuad’s life-threatening situation.”
“Ooh,” chorused the ladies. The gentlemen, however, shuffled back upon this revelation that they faced their natural foe, a university don.
“Dr. Tarrant and I are with Her Majesty’s geographic emergency response team,” Gabriel explained. “We will be assessing the hazards triggered by this crisis and organizing whatever aid may be required.”
It was in fact the smallest part of their job and provided cover for the greater: locating the source of the magical disruptions and, as much as possible, making any initial fixes until the secondary team could arrive. If a landslip had exposed a seam of thaumaturgic minerals that were flaring in response to the weather conditions, they would cover it again. If a magic-infused pool of water had flooded, they would shore up its banks. Such a task must always be highly classified, however, since geographers had long ago learned that if you announced a site of dangerous magic existed nearby and might explode at any given moment, it wouldn’t so much induce panic as send people rushing to that site so they could poke their finger in it, take their photograph beside it, and establish a souvenir shop at the edge.
Indeed, this lot were a case in point. Only idiots rushedtowarda thaumaturgic crisis on purpose. Excepting him, of course…and Elodie…their peers…thaumaturgy students…geologists…news reporters…army reserves…nurses…butit was not at all appropriate for civilians. Storm chasing ought not be a species of tourism!
“Excuse me,” a Miss ventured, holding up a delicate, lace-gloved hand. Gabriel looked at her expectantly. “I wonder if you’d help me with my sextant,” she said, batting her eyelashes with such vigor it was a wonder she could see at all.
Abruptly, Gabriel reached the limit of his conversation tolerance. He snapped a glance at Elodie, and she dropped her harness, offering a smile so radiantly charming it no doubt would have won the group’s full attention had she been wearing more than a shirtwaist and lace drawers. “We want to be sure everyone is safe,” she explained, “and—”
Thump.
It took Gabriel a second to realize this was not his heart reacting to the sight of other men ogling Elodie’s legs, but in fact Algernon Jennings landing bum-first on the road. The lad seemed to bounce a few times, yelping in fright, before Elodie hurried over to unclip his harness from the rappelling rope. Seconds later, his suitcase landed mere inches from where he sat.
“Lembo!”came a shout from above. Looking up, Gabriel saw Bloyd make an angry gesture before once again directing his flying machine back toward Aberystwyth.
“By George, they’re all crackers!” Pimmersby exclaimed, whacking his boater hat against his thigh in emphasis.
“Such derring-do!” sighed a Miss Trevallion dreamily.
“Can we have your autographs?” begged the other.
Gabriel pressed a finger to his brow, trying to remind himself that patience was the better part of valor (or something like that; his only real experience of Shakespeare involved using a volume of the collected works to press flower specimensfor a field study). He’d chosen to study physical geography not only because of all the fun math involved, but also because he assumed there’d be minimal association with humans, and by the time he’d been introduced to words like “diplomacy”and “negotiations” and “teaching students if you want to get any income from your work,” it had been too late to become a tax auditor instead.
He stared at the group, waited quietly until he had their full attention, then spoke in a calm, polite voice.
“Talk to her.”
And pointing at Elodie, he turned his focus away to the verdant landscape beyond.
The Geographic Paranormal Survey placed the major trove of thaumaturgic minerals northwest of Dôlylleuad. Gabriel looked in that direction, seeking evidence of a disturbed fey line, such as broken trees, charred land, or a rooftop made from feathers instead of thatch. He saw nothing of the kind, and yet this place definitely was, as Bloyd had put it,rhyfedd. Weird. The cool autumn air seemed to tremble with latent magic.
Beside him, Elodie was trying to explain to the Misses Trevallion that lace-trimmed drawers were sadly not the latest fashion in outerwear. Gabriel touched her arm, and when she turned with an inquiring look, he nodded northwest. “The trove is that way,” he said.
“Yes, I know,” she answered with just the merest undertone ofI am capable of reading a map.For a moment they stood in professional silence, scanning the view. Then—
“There,” Elodie said, pointing to a church graveyard at the far edge of the village. “That could prove a trouble spot.”
“I agree,” Gabriel said. “Decomposing matter tends toabsorb and intensify thaumaturgic energy.” His eyes narrowed as he laid a mental image of the Geographic Paranormal Survey map over the scene and traced the fey line’s vector. Its scattering of minor deposits between this trove and the next, some fifty miles southeast, ran close to the village. Too close. And it was sparking. Even as he watched, blue light began flickering across the hedge-trimmed fields, causing dirt and grass to erupt along a course that trailed the fey line. Somewhere in the village, glass shattered.
