Sylvanus was sitting with his back against the rough bark of a sweet chestnut tree, his eyes closed, his shoulders festooned with autumn leaves. Pansy was whispering to Auld Nancy and Desdemona Cork, and they looked up at Grayling.
Pansy motioned to her. Grayling dropped the wood and joined the others. “We are wondering over Sylvanus,” Pansy said.
“Why has he not turned tree,” asked Auld Nancy, “or even seen the damage? He heard rumors, he said. What has he been busy doing?”
“Was it something with smoke and shadow?” Desdemona Cork asked in a whisper.
Pansy cleared her throat and said, “I have a worrisome uneasiness about what he carries in his saddlebags. Belike we should examine them.”
The four turned and studied Sylvanus. His eyes were still closed, and he whistled, puffed, and snorted, every breath ruffling his beard. He did not look so very sly or treacherous to Grayling, but then she had little knowledge of treachery.
“Sylvanus,” said Auld Nancy, kicking his foot. “Wake, Sylvanus. We would speak with you.”
Sylvanus stretched and shook his head. “I was not asleep but merely thinking about the problems of the universe. Very difficult work it is, thinking deep thoughts, and ‘the mind cannot grapple when the body is weary.’’’
Auld Nancy kicked his foot again. “Fie, you old braggart. Stop your thinking for a moment. We would see what you carry in those saddlebags.”
“Ah, woe, what is it that causes you to distrust me? I have always done my best.” He snuffled. “But ’tis true, ‘no man is a hero to those who wash his socks,’ as the eminent professor Isidore Muchnick once told me.”
“Enough!” cried Auld Nancy. “Enough! You ever grizzle and yawl! I swear someone has put a babbling spell on you. Pansy, fetch the bags. We shall see for ourselves if he has been about mischief.”
Pansy lifted the saddlebags and shook them. Out fell a blue velvet cap and cape, copper coins, a clean shirt, two metal cups with strange engravings, bottles of various green and slimy things, brown bread, two onions, and a ham.
“Ham!” Auld Nancy shouted. “Ham! You did not tell us you had food! Let us forget this discord for a moment and eat.”
Pansy grinned a sly, satisfied grin. She had known about the ham in Sylvanus’s bags, Grayling was certain of it. But how?
Sylvanus stood. “Are you convinced I carry nothing suspicious in my bags? Leave me now to soothe my stomach and my nerves and put my bodily humors back in balance.” He grabbed his velvet cap from Pansy. “And cease pawing my things, you great, useless lump of a girl!”
Pansy’s grin faded, replaced by her usual sullen pout.
After Sylvanus stowed his things back in his saddlebags, Auld Nancy said, “I will slice ham. Sylvanus, start us a fire.”
Grayling watched him with interest. The man was a magician. Would he snap his fingers to start the fire? Or gesture? Point? Clap his hands?
Sylvanus pulled a tinderbox from a pocket of his dust-colored gown. He saw Grayling’s disappointed face and shrugged.
“What would suit that ham, Sylvanus,” said Desdemona Cork, and the scent of almond blossoms filled the air, “is a bit of that cheese hanging around your neck.”
Sylvanus threw an arm protectively across his chest and shook his head. “’Tis not cheese for eating. It has a purpose.”
“Beyond filling our bellies, I take it,” said Auld Nancy.
A nearby shrub offered late sweet whortleberries, and with the ham and an onion from Sylvanus’s saddlebags, they had a fine supper even without the cheese. Grayling dropped a bit of berry into her pocket for Pook, but the mouse said, “Nay, I fear my belly still suffers from the toad’s dinners.” With a burp, he snuggled deeper.
While they ate, the company aired their various worries and concerns, for which none of them had answers. They all spoke at once: “How much farther? Why the wind? Will we find the grimoire? What else is in store for us?”
“You, Graybeard,” Auld Nancy said to Sylvanus. “Help us. Ask your cheese what it knows.”
He shook his head and held the cheeses close to his chest.
“Is that not its purpose?” Auld Nancy asked. “Why we called at the widow’s cottage? Show us how it is done.”
With what might have been a groan or a grumble or a growl, Sylvanus removed the cheeses from around his neck. With his knife he sliced small bits from each round and dropped them into the smaller of his metal cups, which he placed on the embers of the fire while muttering strange mutters and chanting peculiar chants.
The melting cheese gave off the aroma of sour milk and cinnamon, and Grayling, though full of berries and ham, thought they might do better to eat the cheese than do whatever Sylvanus was planning.
“You, girl,” he said finally to Pansy, “fetch water.” He held the larger cup out to her.