"All the same…"
"It didn't do me any harm, Martha." Mr. Underwood reached for his book.
"It would be a lot less cruel if magicians were allowed their own children."
"That road leads to competing dynasties, family alliances… it all ends in blood feuds. Read your history books, Martha: see what happened in Italy. So, don't worry about the boy. He's young. He'll forget soon enough. Now, what about making me some supper?"
The magician Underwood's house was the kind of building that presented a slender, simple, dignified countenance to the street, but which extended back for a remarkable distance in a confusion of stairs, corridors, and slightly varying levels. There were five main floors altogether: a cellar, filled with wine racks, mushroom boxes, and cases of drying fruit; the ground floor, containing reception room, dining hall, kitchen, and conservatory; two upper floors mainly consisting of bathrooms, bedrooms, and workrooms; and, at the very top, an attic. It was here that Nathaniel slept, under a steeply sloping ceiling of whitewashed rafters.
Each morning, at dawn, he was woken by the fluting clamor of pigeons on the roof above. A small skylight was set in the ceiling. Through it, if he stood on a chair, he could see out over the gray, rain—washed London horizon. The house stood on a hill and the view was good; on clear days he could see the Crystal Palace radio mast far away on the other side of the city.
His bedroom was furnished with a cheap plywood wardrobe, a small chest of drawers, a desk and chair, and a bedside bookcase. Every week Mrs. Underwood placed a new bunch of garden flowers in a vase on the desk.
From that first miserable day, the magician's wife had taken Nathaniel under her wing. She liked the boy and was kind to him. In the privacy of the house, she often addressed the apprentice by his birth name, despite the stern displeasure of her husband.
"We shouldn't even know the brat's name," he told her. "It's forbidden! He could be compromised. When he is twelve, at his coming of age, he will be given his new name, by which he will be known, as magician and man, for the rest of his life. In the meantime, it is quite wrong—"
"Who's going to notice?" she protested. "No one. It gives the poor lad comfort."
She was the only person to use his name. His tutors called him Underwood, after his master. His master himself just addressed him as "boy."
In return for her affection, Nathaniel rewarded Mrs. Underwood with open devotion. He hung on her every word, and followed her directions in everything.
At the end of his first week at the house, she brought a present to his room.
"This is for you," she said. "It's a bit old and dreary, but I thought you might like it."
It was a painting of boats sailing up a creek, surrounded by mudflats and low countryside. The varnish was so dark with age that the details could hardly be made out, but Nathaniel loved it instantly. He watched Mrs. Underwood hang it on the wall above his desk.
"You're to be a magician, Nathaniel," she said, "and that is the greatest privilege that any boy or girl could have. Your parents have made the ultimate sacrifice by giving you up for this noble destiny. No, don't cry, dear. So in turn you must be strong, strive as hard as you can, and learn everything your tutors ask of you. By doing that you will honor both your parents and yourself. Come over to the window. Stand on that chair. Now—look over there; do you see that little tower in the distance?"
"That one?"
"No, that's an office block, dear. The little brown one, over on the left? That's it. That's the Houses of Parliament, my dear, where all the finest magicians go, to rule Britain and our empire. Mr. Underwood goes there all the time. And if you work hard and do everything your master tells you, one day you will go there too, and I will be as proud of you as can be."
"Yes, Mrs. Underwood." He stared at the tower until his eyes ached, fixing its position firmly in his mind. To go to Parliament… One day it would be so. He would indeed work hard and make her proud.
With time, and the constant ministrations of Mrs. Underwood, Nathaniel's homesickness began to fade. Memory of his distant parents dimmed and the pain inside him grew ever less, until he had almost forgotten its existence. A strict routine of work and study helped with this process: it took up nearly all his time and left him little space to brood. On weekdays, the routine began with Mrs. Underwood rousing him with a double rap on his bedroom door.
"Tea outside, on the step. Mouth, not toes."
This call was a ritual stemming from one morning, when, on his way downstairs to the bathroom, Nathaniel had charged out of his bedroom in a befuddled state, made precise contact between foot and mug, and sent a tidal wave of hot tea crashing against the landing wall. The stain was still visible years later, like the imprint of a splash of blood. Fortunately his master had not discovered this disaster. He never ascended to the attic.
After washing in the bathroom on the level below, Nathaniel would dress himself in shirt, gray trousers, long gray socks, smart black shoes and, if it was winter and the house was cold, a thick Irish jumper that Mrs. Underwood had bought for him. He would brush his hair carefully in front of a tall mirror in the bathroom, running his eyes over the thin, neat figure with the pale face gazing back at him. Then he descended by the back stairs to the kitchen, carrying his schoolwork. While Mrs. Underwood fixed the cornflakes and toast, he would try to finish the homework left over from the night before. Mrs. Underwood frequently did her best to help him.
"Azerbaijan? The capital's Baku, I think."
"Bakoo?"
"Yes. Look in your atlas. What are you learning that for?"
"Mr. Purcell says I have to master the Middle East this Week—learn the countries and stuff."
"Don't look so down. Toast's ready. Well, it is important you learn all that 'stuff'—you have to know the background before you can get to the interesting bits."
"But it's so boring!"
"That's all you know. I've been to Azerbaijan. Baku's a bit of a dump, but it is an important center for researching afrits."
"What are they?"
"Demons of fire. The second most powerful form of spirit. The fiery element is very strong in the mountains of Azerbaijan. That's where the Zoroastrian faith began too; they venerate the divine fire found in all living things. If you're looking for the chocolate spread, it's behind the cereal."
"Did you see a djinni when you were there, Mrs. Underwood?"
"You don't need to go to Baku to find a djinni, Nathaniel—and don't speak with your mouth full. You're spraying crumbs all over my tablecloth. No, djinn will come to you, especially if you're here in London."
"When will I see a freet?"
"An afrit. Not for a long time, if you know what's good for you. Now, finish up quickly—Mr. Purcell will be waiting."
After breakfast, Nathaniel would gather his school books and head upstairs to the first—floor workroom where Mr. Purcell would indeed be waiting for him. His teacher was a young man with thinning blond hair, which he frequently smoothed down in a vain effort to hide his scalp. He wore a gray suit that was slightly too big for him and an alternating sequence of horrible ties. His first name was Walter. Many things made him nervous, and speaking to Mr. Underwood (which he had to, on occasion) made him downright twitchy. As a result of his nerves, he took his frustrations out on Nathaniel. He was too honest a man to be really brutal with the boy, who was a competent worker; instead he tended to snap tetchily at his mistakes, yipping like a small dog.