Page 9 of Enchanted Net
She obviously did not permit that sort of clumsiness, the way she moved so deftly and gracefully. Vitus was clear it was a skill she’d spent endless hours perfecting, but he appreciated it all the more for that. Now, he nodded. “If you wish, I will not deny you.” He said the words in all gallantry - and honestly, he did not wish to offend. But something in them had more of an echo than he’d expected, and he did not know why. “Should I stand in a certain way?”
“Just your arms at your sides, away from where I’m working. Here, let me have your glass as well. They should be safe enough here for a moment.” Mistress Lytton-Powell considered the railing. “Or if not, I suppose there’s no one right below just now.” She balanced the two glasses on the flat of the railing and then turned back. “It won’t take very long.” Then she tsked once. “Your suit, is it wool or a wool-silk blend?” Those were the two most likely for Albion, and in spring.
“Wool.” He knew the silk could affect enchantments. Plenty of the men inside were wearing something of the kind. Anyone who routinely wore protective enchantments like armour in their clothing, rather than their accoutrements. “I’ve talismans in my cufflinks, tie pin, watch fob, and a pendant, if that might affect anything.”
It made her raise an eyebrow, but then she nodded, and before he could ask anything further, he could feel the effect. It was rather like a paintbrush gliding over skin, a tactile sensuality that reminded him of running his hand along the stone of the mines themselves when he’d visited. His other experiences of illusion work had been less sensual. As her hand moved, he could see the way everything shifted. She was using the embroidery and purple cloth as the base to form crystals that stuck out at different, realistic angles. They formed a broad line from one shoulder down to the opposite hip, rather like a sash or even a sword belt, made of gemstone.
Then she considered, bringing her gloved hand to her lips for just a second. There was something more like a pulse of magic. Now he could see the suit take on a shimmer more like stone, and with little cracks and shading. It faded out a bit as he craned his neck to look at his shoulders, but the effect was more visible across his chest.
“There.” She sounded pleased. “Thank you for that. It was bothering me. You were very close with the fabric. Do move. I want to see how the effect adjusts.”
Given the instruction, Vitus took a step back, then forward, reaching for both glasses again and offering hers back to her. She took it, lifting her glass in a silent toast, and he touched his glass to hers. It rang, suddenly a little louder in the surrounding quiet. He could feel and see how the crystals looked like solid stone, but they shifted as he moved, like living rock. Or the scales of her dragon, now he thought of that. “I am simply sorry, Mistress, that they will not last. Like a Fatae tale, I suppose, fading away with the dawn.”
“Should you wish to discuss a more permanent piece, I’d be glad to do so. At the moment - you know how this goes, I’m sure - you would speak to Magistra North North. Her shop is north on Trivium Way.” She nodded in the general direction.
“I know the place.” He did. It was just down from the stationery store his father preferred. “I would like that, though I should probably consider if I wish amethyst or something else.”
“The purple suits you. And the range of it.” Then she cocked her head. “Though you weren’t in Fox House, I think.”
“Salmon,” he agreed. “But much as I like citrine, it doesn’t suit me well to wear. Not in this sort of quantity, anyway.” He had somewhat mousy hair and the paler yellow did no favours. “I love lapis, but that’s even trickier to manage in a costume.”
Mistress Lytton-Powell got a speculative look in her eyes at that. Vitus knew that look much better. In anyone of Salmon - or anyone in the Four Metals, for that matter - he’d have immediately pegged it as a sudden contemplation of an interesting magical problem to solve. “I might have some ideas for that, but it needs a layered effect, and getting the veining right is a trick. I will do some research. Do call.”
Before he could say much more, there was a voice behind him. “There you are, Thessaly. I’ve someone I wanted you to talk to.” Vitus turned to see a woman, perhaps in her forties, coming toward them, or rather floating, as if she were in a small lake or pond. It was an impressive costume, if far more showy than Mistress Lytton-Powell’s at first glance. Her mask made him unsure who the older woman was.
“Aunt Metaia.” It gave him the beginning of a clue, but then Mistress Lytton-Powell turned. “This is my aunt, Council Member Metaia Powell. Auntie, I have been discussing some illusion work with Master Vitus Deschamps. Oh, and I meant to ask about your work, we haven’t had time. I will think about the lapis lazuli.” That seemed heartfelt, actually, not just politeness.
Vitus offered a bow. “Of course I won’t keep you. I’m glad to see your glass to safety, though, if I may serve in so small a way. Your costume flatters, Council Member. May I guess your niece had a hand in it?”
It won him a flash of a smile, something full of an approval Vitus didn’t entirely understand. “Oh, a man who uses his eyes properly. Yes, thank you, Thessaly did the work, and splendidly. Do come along, dear, or we’ll never find him again.”
They both smiled at him - their smiles made it obvious they were related - and Vitus just bowed once more as they went off, saying nothing further. He was left alone with two mostly empty wineglasses and a surprising number of questions. He couldn’t do anything about those, but he could go show off her work and perhaps have a few conversations that might lead to eventual clients in due course.
Chapter7
MAY 3RD IN TRELLECH
Thessaly was normally a fairly patient person. Today, though, was testing every grip on her calm she could muster. Magistra North was unhappy with her, and with good reason. Thessaly had missed not only May Day because of the rites at Arundel, but also April 30th and yesterday, May 2nd. Now it was Friday, and half of what Thessaly wanted to do would take several days of work in a row to set up. She could scarcely start now.
Magistra North had left her strictly alone all day, as if ignoring her would make the problems go away. On one hand, that was an apprentice mistress’s prerogative. Magistra North had long since earned every bit of respect for her time and skill that she demanded and expected. And it wasn’t as if Thessaly would make an argument about fairness. Even when that was true and valid, people rightfully assumed - given Thessaly’s background - that she was doing it for some other reason than correctness.
Besides, it was hard to argue with someone who was on the opposite side of the building. And it wasn’t as if Magistra North didn’t have cause. Thessaly had heard the commentary and concerns about the failures of apprentices in her year, and a few years on either side. People who had an awful run of ill health, or who just weren’t up to standard. She’d talked to Aunt Metaia about some of it, but Aunt Metaia hadn’t had an answer either.
It meant there was pressure on the people who were apprenticing to finish, and to meet - exceed - the expectations of their field. That was true in Alchemy, in Healing, in the things that kept people alive. But for all people assumed Illusion was an optional art, Thessaly knew perfectly well how important it was. Illusion work, lasting illusions, was essential in keeping non-magical folk away from Silence-kept spaces or magical homes or places where they could get hurt by magic they didn’t understand. Aunt Metaia did quite a lot of that work for the Council and for private clients.
Even if Thessaly never did much direct consulting, she could take on that role at Arundel or other properties in the family. It would free up illusionists to work on other spaces. Or it would be a way to offer a contribution to the well-being of those in Trellech. The sort of thing where other women, like Mama, might organise a philanthropic luncheon or raise funds with their gifts and talents.
All of it meant Thessaly couldn’t argue with Magistra North’s irritation, even if she had had little control over it. Instead, Thessaly had spent the day getting her workroom in order. She could not start the new projects yet, but she could lay out everything she’d need for them come Monday. She had the materia in the protective storage over on the worktable. Thessaly had also set out and comprehensively annotated her notes, then written up the steps in sequence.
The project at hand was a lasting illusion, projected and formed onto a carved piece of wood. The technique was most commonly deployed for children from families rich enough to have a substantial piece of magical work in the nursery. It was also sought by the occasional theatre who could afford it on a larger scale. It was, however, an excellent technical challenge, both in the crafting and the artistry.
It had also involved sanding a board smooth and preparing it for the fixative and applying that, which had given Thessaly far too much time to think. And mostly, Thessaly had been thinking about the past few days. That might in fact be dangerous to indulge, and yet simultaneously necessary.
The rites at Arundel had been both fascinating and frustrating, in about equal parts. She certainly knew the basic theory of it. She’d earned near enough top marks in Ritual class in her year at Schola, but there was always a distance between the theory of the thing and the application. Professor Hayes had hammered that into them, especially once they got into the practical exercises. Every ritual depended on many factors in the moment, much like the difference between a play on the page and in the theatre.
The Powells had their own customs, of course. Usually she spent the seasonal turning days with Aunt Metaia and that side of the family, rather than Papa’s. The Lyttons had rituals, of course, but they ran on a different cycle and schedule. The Powell rites weren’t about the land magic, though, not formally. They had to do with the continuation and flourishing of the family and those they supported. There were the customs to bless the fields, give thanks for the harvest, for health and happiness, and to offer propitiation when that was called for.
The Arundel rites hadn’t been like that. And worse, she hadn’t even been able to talk about them with anyone. Her parents hadn’t been invited, and when Thessaly had tried to talk a little about them, no one had wanted to listen. Maybe she’d get a chance in private with Aunt Metaia on Sunday. There was a garden party, but after everyone left, they might get half an hour, maybe longer. She could write a letter, but somehow putting magic on the page always flattened it, like someone just learning the rudiments of illusion. It came out like drawings where the dog’s legs had bends in the wrong places or some of the mediaeval illustrations of dragons that looked more like a misplaced crocodile.
