Wondering how to get rid of the fellow, I said, “A variety of theories have been propounded to explain the young woman’s state, and this is indeed among them. But until further research is performed—”
“Oh, research, yes, of course,” he said. “Research costs money, indeed it does; a shame, that exploration of the wonders of the universe don’t come cheap. And that’s me business.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Making money. For all concerned, all concerned; business ain’t worth much unless all walk away from the table happy, eh? Now, sez I to meself, be nice to wake up the girl, eh, find out what life was like back in those days, eh? Sez I, bet Dr. Borthwick would be keen on that.”
“It would be desirable to be sure, but until we better understand the magic that has so long sustained her—”
“Well now, look here. A kiss to awaken her, eh? But has to be her own true love. Where d’ye find her own true love?”
“Even should the theory prove meritorious, I’m at a loss—”
“Precisely! Impossible to say. So then, kiss her a lot, eh? Many folk. True love bound to burgeon in some young man’s breast eventually, eh?”
I blinked at the man. “Precisely what are you proposing?”
“Consider the possibilities. ‘Will you be the one to wake up Sleepin’ Beauty? Are you her prince?’ A shilling a peck, I imagine; bit of a sum, for a sideshow, but this is high-class stuff, Sir James Maxwell investigated, a princess of the ancient world, eh? Bit of pelf for me, bit of pelf for you, bit of pelf for research, eh? And maybe one of the marks wakes up the bint.”
I restrained the urge to smite him on his protuberant and rather rugose nose. “Get out of here,” I told him, raising my voice, “or I shall have you forcibly ejected.”
“Right ho,” he said cheerfully. “Jimmy Fanshaw don’t stay where he’s not wanted. Further research required, and all, maybe the proposition’s a little premature. But you’ve got me card; if you lose it, just remember, Fanshaw and Little, easy to find us, we’re big in the business. Once you’ve finished looking her over, what’re you going to do with her, eh? Research costs money, we could make a pretty penny, you and me. And that’s me business.”
Two porters, looking rather worried, were approaching across the marble floor; Fanshaw saw my eyes on them and turned.
“Oh yes, yes,” he said, “just going, keep calm, lads,” and he strode off toward the big brass doors.
I was glad de Laurency wasn’t with me; I didn’t fancy a fistfight in the lobby of the RTS.
And what a ludicrous notion! That the poor girl’s “own true love,” whatever such a thing might mean, might be found in a horde of carney marks nicked at a shilling a head! I’d sooner use her as a hat stand. It would be more dignified.
Some days later I stood with Sir James in his laboratory, at the stroke of noon when white magic is best performed; it was a clear day, despite the lateness of the year and the smokes of London, sunlight spilling through the large French doors and across the pentacle inlaid in the wooden floor. A brazier wafted the scent of patchouli through the air.
Within the pentacle pale Meg lay atop a silver-metaled table, clad in a shift of virgin linen, her arms crossed over her breast; the lines of the pentacle shone blue with force. Sir James’s baritone raised in invocation to the seraphim, the Virgin, and (I thought oddly, but perhaps appropriately under the circumstances) the great Boadicea.
The brazier produced a little smoke, enough to show the beams of light shining from the windows — as well as a line of energy stretching northward from Meg’s body, across the space demarcated by the pentacle, disappearing through the wall of the laboratory.
Slowly, Sir James touched that line with a wand of ash, then brought the wand toward a manameter, a device of glass and mercury.
The wand touched the manameter. Mercury boiled suddenly over its top, and its glass shattered. The pentacle snapped cold, its blue glow disappearing.
Sir James looked a little shaken. “Well over a kilodee,” he said to me. “That answers one of your questions, at any rate.”
“It does?” I said.
“Someone had a good grasp of magical principles in the eighth century,” he said. “As good as a competent Roman mage, at any rate. That is a good, strong spell.”
“Could you shield her from that line of power?” I asked.
He nodded warily. “Aye,” he said, “but would that waken or kill her? She is more than a thousand years old; magic must sustain as well as suspend her.”
As I bent to swab up the mercury with a rag, there was a knock at the door. It was one of the society’s porters, a little agitated, bearing a salver with a card. “A … a gentlemen has asked to speak with you, Sir James,” he said.
Sir James took the card, raised a brow, and handed it to me. It said:
H.R.H.
THE PRINCE OF WALES
Edward, Prince of Wales, is a large man. Large in many ways: large in girth, large in stature, and large in appetites. We bowed, of course.
“Maxwell!” the Prince bellowed. “You look well, man. Haven’t seen you at the theater lately.”
“Mmm, no, Your Highness. Press of work, you know.”
“Ah well, work. Smokes, fumes, and explosions in the lab, eh? Good smelly fun, for a chap like you, I assume. I may smoke in here, may I not?”—this while brandishing a cigar.
“Of course, Your Highness.”
“Well sit down, dammit,” he said, clipping off the end of the cigar and running a lit lucifer down its length. “Can’t smoke at Windsor, you know, Mater won’t have it. Can’t at any of her residences. Reduced to wandering about the gardens in the most beastly weather just for a smoke. Caught Count von Hatzfeldt, the German ambassador, in his pajamas with his head up the chimney once, can you imagine? Just wanted a cigarette, caused the most dreadful ruckus. I hear you’ve made quite a discovery, Dr. Borthwick.”
I cleared my throat. “An interesting one, certainly, Your Highness,” I said.
“Oh, call me Wales, all my friends do,” he said, waving the smoke away from his neatly trimmed beard. “Beautiful girl, I understand. Shan’t wake till kissed by a Scottish prince.”
Sir James cleared his throat. “This is an hypothesis,” he said. “We have verified that the binding spell is Scottish in origin, but the rest is speculation based on local legend.”
His Royal Highness snorted in amusement. “Trust scientists and wizards for excessive qualification,” he said. “‘Hypothesis … speculation.’ Well, you deal with hypotheses by testing them, what?”
Sir James and I exchanged glances.
“What do you propose, Your Highness?” I inquired.
“Wales, Wales,” he said, waving his cigar before his cummerbund. “Ah, case in point; my most important title, to be sure, Prince of Wales. But you know, I’ve got scads of them — Earl of this and Commander of that. I’m a Rajah, too, did you know? Several of them. In any event, I am also Thane of Fife, as well as Earl of Dumfries and Galloway. Since the Act of Union, I’m the closest thing you’ll find to a Scottish prince. And I can’t say I object to kissing a pretty girl.”
Sir James chuckled. “I’ve never known you to,” he said. “You propose to assist us with our inquiries, I suppose?”