Prunella cried in vexation:
“Oh, don’tflap! Is that the Sorcerer Royal you have got there? He might be so good as to put a stop to Miss Midsomer’s antics, and grant me some respite!”
“To be sure!” said Zacharias, starting. “I beg your pardon.”
It was simple enough for him to draw a barrier around Miss Midsomer to contain her endeavours, but in fact it was not needed, for both girls suddenly lost their appetite for battle at the words “Sorcerer Royal.” Miss Midsomer stopped mid-screech and stood staring at Zacharias with a purple face, as though she had swallowed one of her own curses. Henrietta tore Prunella’s hand from her mouth, shrieked, “Oh, it isnot!” and swooned to the floor.
“Good gracious!” said Prunella. She added, in a tone of reproach:
“If you were going to strike anyone down it should have been Miss Midsomer, for she was most provoking, and she knows perfectly well Miss Stapleton cannot help doing magic when she feels strongly on any subject.”
“Prunella!” said Mrs. Daubeney chidingly, but Zacharias was bending over Henrietta.
“This is Miss Stapleton?” he said. “Miss Henrietta Stapleton? But I know her father.”
“I do not see how that helps matters. I expect he will be very cross to hear you have hexed his daughter,” said Prunella severely.
She knelt and raised her fallen friend’s head with all the gentleness her manner towards Zacharias had lacked: “Poor Henny! To think that you were defending the Sorcerer Royal, only to be so served out by the wicked creature!”
“I did not—” Zacharias began, but he had no opportunity to complete his defence, for Henrietta sat up and said:
“Prunella, if you do not stop upbraiding Mr. Wythe, I declare Ireally will faint, and I expect I will do myself an injury, and then you will be sorry for being so shrewish!”
Whereupon she burst into tears.
•••
PRUNELLAwas more relieved than not to be sent to her room in disgrace. She had not a high tolerance for sentiment, and within five minutes of Henrietta’s dissolving into tears, half the class had followed her. Prunella had been rather enjoying herself till then, but when faced with a class of upset girls the fun of the affray had drained out of her, leaving her cold and uncertain. She had been in scrapes often enough, but she had never seen anything quite like the look on Mrs. Daubeney’s face.
She was uneasy as she let herself into her little room, tucked in the draughty east wing of the school. On any ordinary day she would have taken advantage of the unexpected luxury of leisure to take a nap: sleep could not be overvalued by one who rose at five and often did not get to bed till eleven. But she was too restless. The look on Mrs. Daubeney’s face would recur, though of course Mrs. Daubeney could not blame Prunella for her students’ bad temper—could she?
“She ought to pick better-humoured girls to instruct, or at least teach them to avoid politics once she has them,” Prunella said to herself. “Mrs. D is always saying that a female ought not to know what to think about anything, but ought to do that prettily. Not but what she is shockingly bad at that herself!”
As she paced her room she caught a glimpse of herself in the small, cracked green looking glass on the wall. Her dress bore grey patches of dust, which must have been acquired in the attics. Clothed in this, she had appeared before the Sorcerer Royal!
Not that she gave a fig what the Sorcerer Royal thought. Only it was provoking to have looked so bedraggled before such a very handsome young gentleman. (Prunella saw now what had lent Henrietta such firein arguing her cause against Clarissa’s. A single dinner party would quite suffice to make any susceptible young lady fall desperately in love with a gentleman as beautiful and melancholy as Mr. Wythe.)
“Bother those attics!” she said.
But in a moment Prunella had forgotten all about Mr. Wythe, for her own words reminded her of the attic she had been cleaning. In that large, cold, cluttered room sat a piece of old tarpaulin—and under it, a certain valise.
•••
THEvalise could not conveniently be hidden under her arm or her dress, so Prunella ran all the way from the attics down to her room. Her pulse beat high in her throat, though no one was about.
“It is nottheft,” she thought. “Not truly theft, if it is really my father’s.” If it was not her father’s valise she would return it to the attic, of course, but the only way she might find out was by looking into it.
In her bedroom she dragged a chair over to the door. Having secured herself as much privacy as was possible for her, she opened the valise, sneezing as the dust flew from its surface.
How odd she felt! But hexes always excited the stomach. She was not nervous about what she might find within the valise. Like as not it was not her father’s at all, and had nothing of interest in it. Indeed, why should she care if it was her father’s, since she had never known him?
Despite these brave prophylactics against disappointment, Prunella was inclined to be crestfallen when she drew out of the valise a sheaf of old papers—newspapers and torn receipts, of no account. But the next thing was a worn old journal, bearing the nameHilary Reuel Gentleman, proving she was no thief—and then a black velvet pouch, which promised to be of even greater interest.
Still, this was so little that when she had emptied the valise she overturned it and shook it out, to make sure she had missed nothing.Something clinked on the floor, and would have rolled away into the darkness under the bed if Prunella had not caught it.
It was a small, heavy silver ball, engraved all over with intricate curlicues and dots. Among the swooping strokes and flourishes could be discerned the occasional exotic flower and animal, represented in miniature. Strange hues gleamed upon its surface: first it was silver, but then it was illuminated by a purple light, then green, then blue, the colours following each other in quick succession.
The weight of the ball in her palm seemed curiously disproportionate to its size. It felt as though it contained a great deal more than could be encompassed by anything so small.
