She soon divined that there was an underlying alphabetical sequence in accordance with which the books were arranged, for a number of treatises on talking moldiwarpes (a subject which had drawn asurprising amount of scholarly interest) were to be found immediately following the medieval bestiaries. Still, Prunella had a trying time attempting to trace the routes taken by Zacharias’s thoughts. The books she desired were not to be found underfamiliars(though there was a great deal onfairy, which took her off course for a full hour), but comprised five shelves betweenobjects, magicalandpellars, Cornish. A thin monograph onParedros, vulgarly styled Familiarsexplained the position.
She began reading the monograph, toying with the silver ball she now wore on her neck. Here Prunella ran into further difficulties. She was no great reader, and her choice was written in so laborious a style that she found herself rereading the same page several times, without absorbing any of the sense.
Not that there is much sense in it, for I believe this man is saying he thinks familiars come from Heaven, not Fairyland at all,thought Prunella.Which I think must be blasphemy, and Iknowis silliness!
She was beginning to tire of reaching for books on shelves built for the use of someone considerably longer in limb than she, and she was discouraged by the rows of books which might all—or none of them—contain what she desired. She was therefore not displeased to be interrupted by Mak Genggang.
Prunella put down her book, but made no attempt to conceal the fact that she had been going through the Sorcerer Royal’s possessions. Mak Genggang would not mind it.
“What is it you have there? A book?” said Mak Genggang. She thought it clever of Prunella to read, though she was doubtful of its utility: “I do not know if reading is quite natural for a girl. In my day females kept to enchantery and agriculture, trading at market and tending to the children, and that was enough for us.”
She glanced over the shelves with a jaundiced eye. “And are all these books the young gentleman’s? I do not think much of your sorcerers, if they must rely upon paper for their enchantments! My sorceresses have all their spellshere.”
She tapped a spot on her person below her bosom, but well above her navel. Prunella said, surprised:
“Are there sorceresses in your country?”
Mak Genggang was a puzzle. In manner and appearance she struck Prunella as being little different from an English village witch, of the sort who plied villagers with love philtres and finding charms, far away from the disapproving eye of the Society. Yet she had walked through Fairyland to England; the Sorcerer Royal treated her as an equal; and she was possessed of such a serene and persuasive conviction of her own power that neither fact seemed remarkable.
“Perhaps you would call most of them magicians,” Mak Genggang allowed. “There are one or two women that have entered into pacts with familiar spirits, but I have no truck with such irreligiousness.”
“But your lady-magicians are able to sustain the connection with their familiars?” said Prunella. “They do not suffer any ill consequences from their pacts?”
“No worse than the men,” said Mak Genggang ominously. “To commune with spirits is one thing. Unlike Raja Ahmad, I have no prejudice against lamiae—poor women, most of them, who were ill used in life, and abandoned in death!—or indeed any of the other spirits that inhabit our country. But I could not abide the unholy bondage to which British thaumaturges submit.”
Prunella only half-understood this, but what she did comprehend was novel, and not unwelcome. She stored away this tidbit to consider later, murmuring:
“It is shocking, I am sure!”
She rose to return her monograph to the bookcase—conversation with Mak Genggang seemed infinitely more attractive than the author’s tortured periods. As she moved, the silver ball on its chain swung out of the collar of her dress.
“I did not know the British had singing orbs,” remarked Mak Genggang. “I hope you did not pay too much for that. The foreign tradersare always seeking to pass them off on my women. They say the best are as rare as Saktimuna’s tears, and vastly powerful, but what I say is my women have as much magic in one of their fingernails as could be contained in any bauble—or any book.”
“It was a gift,” said Prunella, after a pause. She touched the silver ball at her throat. “Is it called a singing orb in your country?”
“It is called a singing orb in whatever country you are likely to find it,” said Mak Genggang, seeing through her nonchalance. “Do not you know how to use it? Give yours to me, and I will show you the way of it.”
Prunella unchained the little silver ball from around her neck. Mak Genggang had such force of character as rendered it difficult to deny her anything she requested, and besides, Prunella was curious to see what she might draw from her trinket.
The first results of the witch’s experiment were unpromising. Mak Genggang twisted the ball with her bony, strong fingers, but whatever she expected did not transpire. She let out an indignant huff of breath, and murmured a spell, but still nothing happened. She held the orb up to her eye, glaring, then thumped Zacharias’s handsome walnut desk with it.
“Oh!” said Prunella, springing up at the cracking noise.
“No effect whatsoever!” exclaimed Mak Genggang, inspecting the silver ball. Fortunately the table, too, seemed unaffected. It was one thing to read Mr. Wythe’s books, thought Prunella, but to break his furniture would really be too bad. “How odd to have given you a locked orb! But perhaps it is not odd at all. I suppose you had the orb from some suspicious character?”
“I had it from my parents,” said Prunella, surprising herself with the truth. “They died when I was a child.”
Mak Genggang looked pleased.
“That accounts for it,” she said. “That is one common use of a singing orb, to hold family secrets and convey legacies. The secrets will be chained to your blood, of course. Give me your hand, child.”
Prunella hesitated—rightly, as it turned out. Without waiting for an answer, Mak Genggang grasped her hand, picked up a penknife from the desk, and slashed Prunella’s thumb with it. Prunella yelped, in startlement as much as in pain.
“Now, don’t be babyish!” said Mak Genggang. “I am sure you are too brave to cry out at a little cut, and I will bind it up in a moment.”
Prunella had been scolded often enough by Mrs. Daubeney for her wicked obstinacy and her unguarded tongue. How Mrs. D would marvel to see her now, meek as a lamb! she reflected. But Mak Genggang would reduce anyone to silence. Prunella only let out the smallest of squeaks when Mak Genggang held her injured thumb above the orb and squeezed it.
A drop of blood pooled in an indentation on the orb. The blood ran into the grooves of the carvings, filling out the strokes and curls and flourishes. Where it flowed, light shone out of the sphere.
