They limped to the gate, past the glowering Atkins, past the snickering cronies.
'He's failed, you know that!' Atkins called. 'All his father's influence can't change that!'
Aubrey let out a bitter snort of laughter. 'That's the last thing in the world I want, favours from my father.'
George sighed. 'I know, Aubrey. I know.'
Two
THE DISASTROUS MAGICAL EXPERIMENT HAD TAKEN PLACE three months earlier.
The evening was mild for early spring, although the wind appeared to have ambitions greater than mere breeziness. The smell of honeysuckle came through the open window to the room Aubrey shared with George at Stonelea. It was the heady, redolent scent of late spring.
The rooms at the school were spare but serviceable, which was very much the Stonelea way. Aubrey wished that comfort had been part of the four-hundred-year-old school charter, but the glowering portraits of the founders in Clough Hall announced to the world that comfort was for other people, not for Stonelea boys. Judging by the portraits, it seemed that rigid posture, enormous bushy eyebrows and lack of a sense of humour were the qualities the Stonelea founders most approved of.
The beds had thin mattresses, lest anyone be tempted to sleep too long when there was work to be done; but desks were large, all the better to study. Aubrey had covered most of his with as much alchemical apparatus as was allowed, although he'd often wished he'd brought the larger alembic from home. The chairs were wooden and straight-backed, but George had somehow obtained a battered armchair, which took up its position under the single window. Boxy wardrobes completed the furniture in the room. Aubrey's was topped with suitcases, while George had perched his cornet case on top of his.
Aubrey sat at his desk in a fury of planning. At times like these, the outside world seemed to disappear and he became lost in the intensity of his devising. He was ablaze, as he knew he was on the cusp of moving from preparation to action. He was burning to launch into the experiment that had absorbed him since he'd made his remarkable find.
A week ago, while he'd been doing some idle research into the history of magic, Aubrey had found some ancient scraps of parchment inside a book on classical magical philosophy. The spells were incomplete, but intriguing enough to set Aubrey on a researching spree. Now, he was nearly ready to put his findings into action and undertake a grand experiment.
'So, Aubrey,' George said, 'd'you think the King's decision to marry a tree was a good one or not?'
Aubrey lifted his head from his papers, straightened, and turned to find George nodding at him seriously from the depths of the moth-eaten armchair.
'The King's marrying a tree?'
'Some sort of beech. Lovely bark, apparently.'
Aubrey's mind was still on the details of spell duration, magical forces and the dangers of concatenation. He tried to drag his attention back to the mundane world in order to follow what George was talking about.
The King's behaviour had been slowly becoming stranger and stranger in the five years since the death of Queen Charlotte. The Crown Prince was, in reality, handling all official functions of the monarchy, even at his tender age of eighteen. Most people understood, but it wasn't the sort of thing that was spoken aloud in good company. The public still seemed to like the King, but the affection had been growing strained as his behaviour grew more and more erratic.
Marrying a tree, though, was taking eccentricity to a level that even the most loyal Albionites were uncomfortable with.
'Where's the ceremony to be held?' Aubrey asked cautiously.
George grinned. 'Ah, at last, a reaction! Do you realise that's the fourth question I've asked you in the last half an hour? And the first one you've actually heard?'
'So the King's not marrying a tree.'
'Not that I've heard. But there is a rumour that no-one is allowed to use the word "porridge" in his presence, so I wouldn't be surprised at anything. Thank goodness for the Crown Prince.'
'Mmm,' Aubrey said. His mind was already turning back to his books.
George stood and sighed ostentatiously. 'I can see that you're not going to be any use for a while.'
'Sorry, George. This Nature of Magic stuff has me excited.' Aubrey pushed his hair back from his eyes. 'In class today Mr Ellwood said that unlocking the Nature of Magic will be the greatest advance in magical theory since Baron Verulam's Magical Revolution –'
George held up a hand. 'That's enough, old man. You know that magic talk makes me dizzy.' He reached on top of the wardrobe and seized his cornet case. 'I'm off to practise. I'll leave you to your stuff.'
Aubrey didn't hear the door close behind his friend. He was already immersed in the intricacies of arcane magic theory and feeling the thrill that comes from exploring the frontier of knowledge. He wondered if this was how one of his personal heroes, the great Baron Verulam, had felt.
Baron Verulam's staggering insights three hundred years ago were the birth of modern magic, taking it out of the dark ages of superstition and trickery. Verulam's insistence, despite the scorn of his contemporaries, was that magic should be treated in a scientific manner, through experimentation and observation, to try to establish consistent laws that would lead to reproducible results. This empirical approach to magic was the great leap forward, and light was brought to bear on what had previously been a dark art. Modern magic grew from ancient magic in the same way that the half-mad, half-intuitive fumblings of alchemy gave birth to the rational science of modern chemistry.
Slowly, great minds came to see the worth of Verulam's ways. Spells became more reliable as the underlying laws were established. Fewer disasters resulted from spell casting. Gradually, magic became dependable enough to be used to assist the growth in mechanics and technology in the Industrial Revolution, much to the benefit of the nation of Albion. Its growth as the powerhouse of the modern world could be traced to the savants, thinkers and practitioners who were alive to the possibilities of a rational approach to both magic and technology.
The growth in technology outstripped the rise of magic, however, due to one important aspect: magic could only be performed by those few with the natural aptitude for it. This aptitude also brought an awareness of magical forces, and an ability to see the effects of magic in a way others could not. It could be enhanced by study and diligence, but without the inherent magical capacity, spells could not be cast.
From an early age, it was apparent Aubrey had this ability. It had appeared in his family over the centuries, but only rarely, skipping whole generations and then blooming unexpectedly. It was a gift, much like a gift for higher mathematics or a gift for music. Aubrey was humbled by it and determined to make the most of it.
He seized his copy of Tremaine's Towards a Theory of Magical Forces, which he'd had sent down from the university library. He'd used Mr Ellwood's name on the request, but he was sure he'd have it back before his teacher noticed. The Tremaine book was large, leatherbound, and very, very new. When he opened it the heady fragrance of fresh print rose from the pages. He enjoyed the sensation for a moment, then began to read the introduction.