“Auld Nancy?” The booming voice was replaced by one more human and even elderly.
“Auld? Not so old compared to you. Except for the food stains, your beard has gone quite white.” Auld Nancy cackled. “I trust you are well. I have not seen you since the sad affair of the magic chickens.”
“Sad indeed.” The man’s eyes filled with tears. “I was certain that a sprinkle of my flying powder would see those birds safely down from the roof. Alas, alas.” His tears wet his cheeks and dampened his beard, and he wiped at them with a blue handkerchief. “Still, as the ancients say, ‘’tis better to try than to wonder.’”
Auld Nancy dismissed him with a wave. “This,” she told the others, “be Sylvanus Vetch, adept of soothsaying, conjuration, and the casting of charms. He be teacher of enchanted scholarship at the school in Nether Finchbeck.”
The school at Nether Finchbeck was a famed training academy for wizards, sorcerers, charmers, and spellbinders. This unlikely looking magician must be powerful and important indeed, thought Grayling. But if he were a famed magician, could he not have conjured a new cloak and better shoes? And why was he not rooted to the ground like so many others?
“These companions of mine,” Auld Nancy continued, “are Desdemona Cork; Hannah Strong’s daughter, Grayling; and the young Pansy, my niece Blanche’s girl.”
Desdemona Cork twitched her shawl, and Sylvanus looked at no one else. “An enchantress, I see,” he said to her with an awkward bow. “And very . . . well, enchanting, I find.” He waved his hand, and a large green bush near the path burst into bloom with creamy soft flowers. He slinked closer to her and presented her with a spice-scented bloom. “Sylvanus Vetch at your service, my lady—Brother Doctor Sylvanus Vetch, illustrious scholar, celebrated magician, and esteemed practitioner of tyromancy, or divination with cheese.”
Desdemona Cork took the flower with a frown that was yet as lovely as any smile Grayling had seen, and Auld Nancy snorted. “Peace, Sylvanus! ’Tis not Desdemona Cork you should be attending but Grayling, who will tell you from the beginning what has befallen us.”
And Grayling did. Her tongue was tired of telling the tale, and she was no closer to freeing Hannah Strong and the others than she had been at the start. But now Brother Doctor Sylvanus Vetch, who had called himself illustrious, celebrated, and esteemed, was here. Looking at the weepy, bony fellow gaping at Desdemona Cork, Grayling tried to bury her doubts. Perhaps their fortunes would change now for the better.
“Alas, alas,” said Sylvanus when Grayling had finished. He wiped his drippy eyes and nose on his sleeve. “To think the world is in such a state! I have heard rumors that the faculty of Nether Finchbeck is now a grove of hornbeam trees, grimoires and scrolls have been taken, and the students guzzle ale as they make vague and unsuitable rescue plans.” Tears overflowed his eyes and disappeared into his beard until they emerged drop by drop at the bottom. “Alas, alas, oh, woe and sadness. ’Tis true that ‘only the busy bee has no time for sorrow.’”
“Rumors? Only rumors? How did you not know, you who call yourself illustrious scholar and more?” Auld Nancy asked. “And how is it you, too, are not rooted to the ground?” She narrowed her eyes and peered at him.
He snuffled one last great snuffle and said, “Belike because I was not here. I was somewhere else. Somewhere”—he gestured vaguely toward the clouds—“else.”
Grayling looked up to the sky but saw only sky.
Desdemona Cork asked, “Why have you, with the magic to make flowers bloom, not vanquished the evil force and made things right again?”
Pansy said, “Are you truly from Nether Finchbeck?”
Grayling broke in. “Do you, sir, have such a thing as a grimoire?”
With a great harrumph, Sylvanus said, “Nay, I have no need of a book for my spells. All my knowledge is stored here.” He tapped his head with a bony finger.
“Likely that is why you have not been rooted,” said Grayling.
Sylvanus smoothed his beard, smiled, and said, “Be of good cheer, fair mistresses. After hearing your sad tale, I shall favor you with my company for a time.”
Company? Just company? “Can you do nothing to help?” Grayling asked him. “About the rooted folk and the grimoires, the smoke and shadow and the mysterious wind? Do you have no useful skills?”
The magician’s eyes snapped. “I cannot combat the evil force until I know what it is,” he said, “where it is from, why it was sent. That will take cogitation, consideration, contemplation, rumination. I cannot be hurried.”
Grayling was not satisfied, but Sylvanus turned from her and whistled. A small spotted mule trotted out from between the trees. Pook? Is it Pook? Is he now Pook the mule? Grayling patted the herbs in her basket and was relieved to feel the shape of a sleeping toad. Nay, not Pook.