Free The Midnight Queen by Sylvia Izzo Hunter Page A

Even limited, as he now appeared to be, to the smallest of magicks—calling light and fire, summoning small objects from close at hand—Gray might yet have spent many happy years as a Fellow of Merlin, teaching magickal theory to eager young men.
    And what choice had he, with no abode but his College rooms and no income but his College scholarship?
    But never again to fly! To pass another year, or more, under the Professor’s stultifying tutelage, deprived of that escape! And even this prospect, he suspected, was unduly optimistic; he had only the Professor’s word (and not so much his word as an oblique threat to the contrary) that his name would be cleared in return for his compliance.
    On the other hand . . .
    On the other hand were the comforts of home and family, the more appealing for being so long denied him. Perhaps even now, if he gave in—if he begged forgiveness and submitted himself to his father’s wishes—he would once again be welcomed there.
    Tomorrow I shall tell the Professor that I intend giving up my Mastery and taking up the commission my father wishes to purchase for me,
he decided.
And then perhaps he will let me go home.
    So saying, he betook himself to bed, only to be denied for many hours the relief of sleep.

CHAPTER V
    In Which Professor Callender Welcomes a Visitor
    Gray began the next morning by searching the house for his tutor, intending to carry out his resolve of the night before. This quest proving fruitless, he sighed in resignation and fetched his gardening hat.
    Before the day was ended, he had undergone a change of heart.
    Still wanting an early glimpse of the Professor’s “distinguished guest,” he contrived to find work that placed him within sight of the front of the house. This was bound to irritate Pellan, who did not like anyone else—even the Professor, who paid his wages—to decide things about
his
gardens, but a dressing-down from Pellan would by now be nothing unusual, and the events of the summer had given Gray a strong distaste for surprises.
    The visitor was due to appear in the course of the morning, but when Joanna came out to summon Gray to luncheon, there had still been no sign of any new arrival.
    â€œDo you know who this mysterious visitor is to be?” he asked her as they trailed towards the kitchen garden. Although Joanna lacked Sophie’s gift for blending in unseen, she was, through continual gossiping in Breton with the house servants, often in possession of useful information.
    This time, however, she only shrugged. “I have not the least idea,” she said, plucking a leaf from a stand of bee-balm in passing. “But he must be terribly rich or terribly important, for Father to make such a to-do.”
    The same thought had occurred to Gray.
    â€œAnd if Father admires him so,” Joanna continued, “he will be dreadfully dull and probably very stupid, and we shall all be expected to flatter him and agree with everything he says. I have been considering,” she said, her round, freckled face screwed up in thought, “whether I ought to fall down the stairs and sprain my ankle, or simply take to my bed with a chill.”
    Despite himself, Gray had to stifle a snort of laughter. “Never the stairs,” he said. “You should not like your injuries to be
too
real. And a chill is difficult. A headache is what you want: very easily feigned—no outward signs—and should a healer be sent for, you can say it has gone away.”
    Joanna looked reluctantly impressed. “Sophie was right,” she said; “you
are
rather clever.” Then, her face resuming its more customary expression of pugnacious suspicion, she demanded, “How did you come to be studying with
Father
? Had you done something to make the College angry with you?”
    *   *   *
    Gray had largely overcome his resentment at being expected to work outdoors in all weather,