Auld Nancy and Pansy listened intently, while Grayling’s jaw dropped in befuddlement. “Sausage? How sausage?”
“Made of bits and pieces of things everyone has—not pork and spices but tricks and charms, aptitudes and powers, some herbs, some skill and training, and some luck.” He tightened the straps of the saddlebags on the mule, and Nostradamus grunted. “The world is full of mystery. Not everything can be explained. Does that make it magic? You could sing to the grimoire with no words and no music and hear it singing back. How? Was this magic? Was it in you? In the song? Or does it speak of a bond between you and the grimoire?” Sylvanus pushed a wisp of hair from Grayling’s face. “And there is magic of sorts in your courage and your keen wits, the songs you called upon, and your caring heart.”
Grayling sniffed. Whatever skills she had were not at all awesome and astounding, not what she would call magical. She could not command smoke and shadow or shroud a boy in a glamour spell as Pansy had. But Pansy’s magic just caused trouble. Did magic always bring trouble? Would having magic be worth being as irritating and vexatious as Pansy?
“How was it, Sylvanus,” Grayling asked him, “that you knew nothing of the smoke and shadow and the damage it caused when we found you?”
“I was elsewhere, traveling,” said Sylvanus, “partaking of the pure aether there beyond the moon . . .”
Grayling ruckled her forehead in suspicion.
“Aye, you have the right of it. In truth,” he said, “I knew of the smoke and shadow, and I had concluded that the force’s magic was so strong it could not be defeated by more magic, but might feed off it and grow stronger. The force would be vanquished, I determined, only through courage, cleverness, imagination, good judgment, and good sense. I waited for someone with those qualities, for you. And you proved me right.”
Grayling looked at him in wonder.
“I do have some useful skills,” Sylvanus told her. “The school at Nether Finchbeck does not employ me merely for my handsome face. Now I must go.”
He dropped a handful of copper coins into Grayling’s hand. “Fare thee well, lass. Perchance we might meet again.” He touched his hand to his head in a salute as he walked off, leading the mule one way, leaving Grayling and Auld Nancy and Pansy to go another.
Grayling called to Sylvanus, “You never told us—what is the first rule of magic?”
He spun round and called back to her, “’Tis the hardest rule to learn: magic is not the answer. Magic may be convenient, brilliant, even dazzling, but it is not the answer.” He waved once to her before he turned and walked on.
XV
rayling dropped the coins into her pocket, and Pook thrashed and grumbled in irritation as they landed on his head. Eager to see what awaited her, she turned her feet toward home. Where the road was rocky, she trod carefully, for the soles of her shoes were as thin as a poor man’s soup. On paths smooth and soft she hurried her steps, though she felt ever so weary.
Auld Nancy, grown fine and thin and feeble, struggled, her shoulders slumped and breath ragged, and a sullen Pansy lagged behind. Pook slept most of the time in Grayling’s pocket, snoring small mouse snores. Their adventures had tired him, too.
Days dragged on, but soon the world around her began to look familiar, and her heart leaped. She had admired that church, fancied that cottage, run from those dogs. It seemed a lifetime since they had passed this way. She had expected to be joyful and relieved after the defeat of the smoke and shadow, but her mind was uneasy, and her humors disordered. Her steps grew slower and slower as they passed the remnants of the silk pavilion, flapping in the autumn breeze.
They were near to the crossroads where the metal-nosed warlord had accosted them, and though travelers were plentiful on this stretch of road, Grayling’s belly tightened with dread. To calm herself, she imagined the difficulties the man must have: sneezing his nose off, blowing a nose rusted in the rain, kissing Lady Metal Nose. She tried to laugh at the ridiculous images, but even as a daydream, his face frightened her, so she thought of more pleasant things: misty mornings, the smell of mint leaves brewed in hot water, robins in the spring, cabbage cooked with apples, yellow cheese and sausages and warm dark bread.
She turned to share this with Auld Nancy, but Auld Nancy was a ways behind, sitting on the roadside with Pansy beside her.
“Turnips and thunderstorms,” Grayling muttered in annoyance as she retraced her steps.
“Leave me, girl,” said Auld Nancy. “I am weary in my bones and can go no farther.”