Lessons in Enchantment Read online

  Lessons in Enchantment

  School of Magic, Book 1

  Patricia Rice

  Contents

  Introduction

  Please Join My Reader List

  Author’s note

  Acknowledgments

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Lessons in Enchantment Characters

  Please Join My Reader List

  About the Author

  Also by Patricia Rice

  About Book View Café

  Introduction

  Can a straitlaced engineer, three psychic children, and a lonely witch find love?

  * * *

  “You mistake me,” a plummy feminine voice declared in icy hauteur from the foyer.

  On his way up the stairs to wash before attending yet another business meeting, Drew hesitated.

  The rounded vowels continued, “I am Lady Phoebe Malcolm Duncan. I will not use the servants’ entrance.” The lady’s cool tones conveyed imperiousness without once raising her voice. “If this is how I am greeted, then you may tell your master that he may find someone else to educate his children.”

  Oh no, he wasn’t losing another nanny before she was even hired! He’d had to throw out the last one when he’d found her drunk in the kitchen after the episode with Clare and the ghost.

  He hastened down the stairs despite the fact that he was missing jacket and cravat and his shirt was coated in oil and his worst nightmare was at the door.

  The apparition in his foyer almost brought him to a halt. He had expected aristocracy at its worst—billowing skirts and soaring tresses and condemnation permanently engraved in her expression.

  Instead, the visitor had no resemblance to any female he’d ever encountered. He couldn’t precisely gauge her height since she appeared to be wearing high-top shoes with heels beneath her too-short skirt, and her porkpie hat—adorned with roses—teetered above a stack of chestnut curls. A black duster hid most of her gown, but he was positively certain it didn’t conceal layers of petticoats. In fact, he was quite convinced the skirt was somehow. . . divided.

  She was holding a high-wheeled bicycle. And her pocket was. . . squirming.

  Now he was mesmerized.

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  Author’s note

  Writing fictional history is an interesting amalgam of fact and fiction. Thanks to the University of Edinburgh, I have a veritable treasure trove of old maps and photos to work with. But fiction requires action in areas that fit the story—without forcing my characters to spend hours traipsing all over Edinburgh. So for the sake of condensing time and pages, I have not attempted precise historical accuracy in street structure. Margaret’s Wynd did not exist, for instance, but others like it did. The veterinary schools were located near what is now Multree’s Walk. They not only existed, but they were located a short distance from each other, just as in the story. New Town was established as a system of Georgian terraces, so while Drew’s house might be imaginary, it represents the beautiful areas of town that can still be seen today.

  The Association is pure fiction. Yes, through centuries of history there have always been groups of powerful men who would do whatever it took to have their way. We still have groups like that today. It’s human nature to believe one’s own beliefs are right and others are wrong. The Victorians were very fond of “associations” of all sorts, good, bad, and indifferent. So I simply combined all the factors I required into a single group and labeled them generically, just as my heroine calls her pets by their generic names.

  Acknowledgments

  My extreme gratitude to Laura Vivanco for all the lovely on-line Edinburgh maps, and Monica Burns for the huge assortment of Gaelic and Scots dialect, both insults and endearments. They saved me immense amounts of time and inspired all sorts of ideas I’d never have had without them. And to Mindy Klasky, beta reader extraordinaire, without whom conflict would never happen.

  Creating a book is like raising children—it requires a village. I have been blessed with an assortment of friends, family, and fellow writers who understand when I stop and stare blankly at a particularly interesting building or ask what it feels like to fear heights. They’re my heroes.

  One

  “A wife, my kingdom for a wife!” Andrew Blair muttered from under his work table as a wrench floated past his nose. Drew shoved out to glare at his cousin’s six-year-old son. What in thunderation was the brat doing in here?

  A wife would keep the blasted weans where they belonged, right?

  Snatching the wrench from the air, Andrew Blair applied it to the undercarriage of his frustratingly useless pterotype. “My cousin should have blown up the mine,” he said crossly, focusing on his newest mechanical contraption and not his partner’s business discussion.

  “Blowing up the mine would have put Simon’s miners out of work, an effect I thought our consortium is attempting to prevent.” Hugh Morgan nudged Drew’s shoulder with his boot. “You need to come out and sign this contract.”

  “Simon would rather the dastards blow him up? He’s been hunting for evidence for almost a year now! If he’d give up on the mine, he wouldn’t have to be living in fear of cowards—”

  A floating screwdriver slammed into the table leg and toppled to the floor. Drew shut up about the child’s father.

  “You won’t have a kingdom if you don’t sign these contracts,” Hugh informed him. “And if we don’t start work soon, we’ll go broke, and you’ll never find a wife.”

  Hugh had a mathematical mind in the muscular body of a blacksmith. He didn’t socialize well, but he spoke fluent business. Any form of social commentary indicated rebellion on the horizon.

  The tool-shifting brat slipped into a corner of the workroom and closed his eyes, as if that made him invisible. Generally, the children didn’t exist to Drew, but they were easier than contracts. “Enoch, get back to the nursery where you belong! Where’s your damned nanny?”

  “Nanny says damned is a very bad word, and you will go to perdition,” the boy said, eyes closed and forehead furrowed in concentration. As if drawn by imperceptible strings, a screwdriver rose unsteadily from Drew’s neatly organized toolbox.

  Not making any progress on the pterotype, Drew caught the inexplicably floating screwdriver, pushed from under the table, and stood. “Be damned to nanny. You’re too young to be in here. Where are your sisters?”

  Holding a stack of papers, Hugh blocked his access to the brat. Where Drew was long and lean, Hugh Morgan was barrel-chested and shorter. They’d fought with fists as boys, neither of them coming out the winner. Now, they tangled over stacks of legal documents. Being an adult didn’t have a lot to recommend it.

  “Nanny has a megrim. The twins are in the attic,” Enoch announced,
scampering out of the workroom before Drew could haul him out.

  “What’s a megrim?” Drew asked idly as he scrubbed his oily hands on a rag.

  “Something nannies get, apparently. I’ll never understand why your family thought you should take care of the three-headed monsters.” With more assurance now that they were back to business, Hugh showed him where to sign.

  “My family believed I was getting married,” Drew said with a shrug.

  Hugh snorted. “And they wanted to scare her off? Brilliant.”

  His partner knew Drew’s cousin, knew his circumstances, and that Simon had gone mad crazed with drink and vengeance after his wife’s death. There were times when Drew had wondered if the children had driven his cousin to madness first.

  Drew couldn’t really blame his ex-fiancée for not wanting to set up housekeeping with an instant family. Now that he considered it, Rose probably would have had megrims and retired to her room too.

  He didn’t need a wife. He needed an army sergeant—at least until such time as Simon regained his senses and took the weans back, which might be never.

  “You’ll not find a wife willing to put up with them,” Hugh said darkly. “We need to start this project so you can someday afford a dozen nannies. Right now, the tenants don’t pay enough to cover the enormous maintenance of those tenements. We’re losing buckets of money. And you have a meeting with the consortium in an hour.”

  “That entire medieval cesspool of derelicts and rats should be razed to the ground,” Drew complained, shrugging into his cutaway tweed jacket. “I fail to perceive how sinking all my funds rebuilding will earn me enough to buy food.” Although he had ideas of mechanical improvements. . . That had been one of the reasons he’d agreed to investing in the project—a mechanical lift.

  Hugh was his investment manager. Without him, Drew would be living in a garret. Tinkering with ideas was not a sound financial policy, he’d learned. Some of his inventions paid off well, some not at all. He had to eat in between. He had to listen when Hugh spoke. He didn’t always understand. He simply went to business meetings and hoped to learn.

  “Because you’ll be involved in restoring a historical city. They’re demolishing the old wynds and money is pouring into High Street. We’ll start in Canongate, where the investment is lower. Imagine rows of new terrace houses winding up the hill. You’ll earn more than on that tatty machine you’re working on.” Disgruntled, Hugh shoved the contract back into its folder.

  Aye, right, that’s what he’d been thinking—refilling his coffers for his ever-needy family.

  “My pterotype has universal applications more important than money. Just imagine how much faster your fancy contracts could be prepared if they could be written by my machine.” Drew looked around for his cravat, and not finding it, stalked toward the parlor door.

  A man with his plebian background couldn’t step outside his house without a cravat and polished boots, looking like the gentleman he wasn’t. He’d have to go upstairs and straighten his attire before he went anywhere. He should probably check on the nanny and the children while he was there. By the time he attended the meeting, he’d have to forget lunch, again. He didn’t want to have to hire another cook, but this one had a schedule that never suited his.

  He reached the foyer just as the maid let in his neighbor— Blood and thunder! Aware of his non-existent cravat, Drew felt like a half-naked barbarian. A pale young thing peered out from behind his broad-beamed neighbor, and his stomach cramped.

  “Mr. Blair, I’m so glad I caught you.” Mrs. Dalrymple rustled across the parquet. “I’d like you to meet my niece—”

  A scream reverberated down the stairwell, rattling the excellent foundation. Almost relieved at the excuse to ignore the little mouse and her aunt, Drew dashed for the stairs, leaving his visitors gaping in the foyer.

  “There you are, Mrs. Mac, a letter that will melt the heart of the most heartless son.” Phoebe Malcolm Duncan capped her fountain pen and shook the linen notepaper to be certain it dried without smearing. The old lady liked to pretend she lived in a fancy house by using Phoebe’s stationery.

  The hunched pencil seller in faded mourning and black lace gloves curled her fingers into her palms and shook her scraggly gray curls. “You send it, my lady. I daren’t touch it.”

  Spoken through toothless gums and in a broad accent, her request was barely comprehensible, but Phoebe had heard the language of the slums since childhood and understood enough to nod and fold the letter for later mailing. Mrs. Mac’s son never responded, but a mother never gave up hope.

  Picking up her penny farthing, she climbed on the towering seat and arranged her split skirt to fall over her high-top shoes. Before she could continue on to her next stop, Phoebe heard Raven screech a warning overhead. She froze and opened her senses.

  The rats were rushing out of Margaret’s Wynd as if their tails were on fire. Even the simple-minded pigeons were aflutter. Holding on to her porkpie hat, Phoebe tilted her head to search the sky. There—right over the wynd where she’d grown up—flocks of pigeons surged upward, circling in panic. Her stomach clenched in alarm, knowing the pigeons only performed that aerial act if seriously disturbed from their roosts.

  The only home she’d ever known was in the center of that medieval winding lane. Pumping the bicycle pedals, balancing the high wheel, Phoebe raced into crowded Canongate in the direction of the palace. On this main road, she dodged carts and pedestrians and curses, then shot across in front of a carter’s horse, into Margaret’s Wynd.

  All looked normal in the grim dark lane of towering ancient edifices. A business-suited patron smoked outside the cigar store. The professor in his aging black coat lifted his top hat to her, heading for the university. An urchin played in the gutter. Clothes fluttered from the lines strung across the narrow alley.

  Only she noticed the silent pigeons circling frantically in the almost invisible sky and the rats racing from their tunnels in the courtyard middens.

  She heard the ominous rumble before she could see around the narrow curve to her tenement. What in all the holy saints— she pedaled faster.

  A horrendous crash followed by a thick cloud of dust nearly pitched the bicycle over. Raven screamed imprecations. Even Piney whimpered a sleepy protest in her pocket.

  Phoebe halted, planting her boots firmly on the shaking ground. In horror, she watched as the front wall of her home crumbled into a mound of brick and stone. The professor raced back down the street to join her. People spilled out of the shops and taverns. The noise nearly drowned the screams and cries of the tenement inhabitants in their now frontless building.

  Gaping, not quite believing her eyes, Phoebe gazed upward at the eight-story edifice she called home. Her flat—and all the others—were completely exposed to the September wind. Draperies blew, exposing ancient furniture. The medieval façade had simply fallen off the structure.

  How the holy. . . By all the saints, what did she do now? Panic sank into her bones at sight of her books blowing in the breeze.

  But people came first. How many were hurt? Acting instinctively, she set aside her bicycle and headed for the rubble.

  In the back of her head, a voice wailed, Where will I go? Everything I own, everything I love, gone. . . My books! Daddy’s portrait!

  A woman’s screams halted any further hysteria.

  Neighbors crowded around Mrs. Tarkington, holding her back as she tried to reach the mound of rubble still emanating centuries of thick, rock dust.

  “My baby!” the mother cried. “My baby!”

  Oh no, not Evie! Phoebe had watched little Evie grow from infancy. The child wasn’t entirely right in the head—her mother was an alcoholic prostitute who may have passed on some disease—but that didn’t mean the bonds of love weren’t strong. She might not be able to save her home, but Evie. . .

  Biting her finger, Phoebe fought past her rattled nerves. She slipped the pine marten from her pocket, whispering soothingly, and mentally fo
cused on an image of Evie’s golden curls. “Please, Piney, find her.” She knew the animal didn’t understand the words so much as the pleading tone and the image she planted in his head. A member of the weasel family, Piney could squeeze into the most impossible crevasses. Maybe, if they could find Evie quickly enough. . .

  She set the marten free in the shadows. She’d raised him since she’d found him as a baby in a deserted nest in one of the few remaining trees by the ancient cemetery—a dying pine. She’d hoped to someday find him a mate, but his natural habitat had been nearly eradicated by the growing city. She didn’t stand much chance of finding another pine much less a marten.

  The slender mammal wiggled from her hand and scampered over the stones to squirm under the mound of debris. Mrs. Tarkington’s screams reverberated over the echoes of the crash. The neighbors not in shock tried to steer the distraught mother away. Phoebe could say nothing that might console her. All she could do was pray and concentrate on tracking her pet.

  And not think about the appalling loss of her only home.

  She had to focus on Piney so she didn’t lose him. Overhead, Raven squawked and complained. The old bird had a right to protest. He’d made his home on the tenement roof. With the front wall gone, he’d be subject to every cold wind that battered the crumbling mortar. He’d lost his mate last winter, despite all Phoebe’s efforts to keep them warm.