Magic Below Stairs (13 page)

“Mr. Mitchell can be an excellent instructor,” said Mr. Pickering. “But if not for you, I would have had no instructor whatever. I would be polishing some other officer's boots for him at this very moment.”

“Nonsense. You couldn't possibly be in the army. Your eyesight isn't good enough.” Despite his scornful tone, Lord Schofield looked pleased. “Frederick, if you sweep that spot much longer, you'll wear a hole through the floor. Get on with it!”

Mr. Pickering said, “I still consider you my first tutor. At the Royal College of Wizards, you have gained a reputation as a man with a keen eye for magical talent. I did my best not to let you down.”

Lord Schofield beamed. “Too clever by half, Pickering.”

Mr. Pickering smiled gently back. “Thank you, my lord.”

“What! Is that a bit of common courtesy I hear from you at last? Be careful, or I shall think your egalitarian principles are slipping.”

“Old habits die hard.” As Frederick swept near his feet, Mr. Pickering closed the book he was reading and returned to his original subject. “Since there's no danger to you or Lady Schofield, there's no cause for concern.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Lord Schofield demanded. At a meaningful look from Mr. Pickering he hesitated. Then, prompted by an equally meaningful nod from Mr. Pickering, Lord Schofield continued in his most patient tone, as if he were addressing a clergyman. “Ah. Just so. No cause for concern. The spell was broken properly and disposed of professionally.”

For a moment, Frederick wondered if they had lost their wits. Then he decided they were speaking for his benefit. They expected him to gossip. This way he could reassure the other servants in the household.

“Only a stubborn residue remains.” Mr. Pickering smiled at Frederick as he shifted his feet to avoid the broom. “Not much danger there.”

“
No
danger there,” said Lord Schofield. “I would need to forget every protective spell I ever knew before what residue remains presented any threat to me. More than that, every protective counter-charm on this place would have to fail at once. I have no intention of leaving this house until Kate's child is safely here. Furthermore, the counter-charms blessing this house will outlast the stones it is made of by several centuries. If any of the servants ask you, Frederick, you may quote me.”

In other words, there was no need for anyone to fear the curse. No need for any further gossip about it, either. Frederick knew exactly what he had just been told, but he kept his expression blank as he looked up from his work. “Me, my lord? Who would ever ask me anything?”

“Who indeed, Frederick?” Lord Schofield raised an eyebrow. Once again, Frederick had the sense his employer was looking clear through him, seeing more than Frederick wanted anyone to see.

“We have had an afternoon of it, haven't we?” Mr. Pickering sighed gently. “I don't suppose there's any chance of a cup of tea and a morsel of pastry, is there?”

“Food again.” Lord Schofield looked resigned. “Put those books away, Pickering, and I'll ring for Kimball. We must make sure you don't wither away from hunger. At least, not before dinner is served.”

Two weeks passed, with daily private consultations held—and cleaned up afterward by Frederick—and no mention of Billy Bly whatever. Lord Schofield pronounced himself satisfied. Frederick was sorry to see Mr. Pickering go, and not only because he left no tip.

Mr. Pickering had shown Frederick it was possible to be a wizard without being a nobleman. It was possible, although obviously challenging, to be a wizard without being a rich man. It was even possible to be a wizard without being old, for Mr. Pickering had been a wizard at least since the night Sir Hilary's curse upon Lord Schofield was broken, yet even now he was barely four and twenty years of age.

Frederick had learned the young man's age when he was sent back to Hetty the seamstress. Mr. Kimball had ordered him a new suit of livery, but the London outfitters had sent coat and breeches too big for him in every way. Hetty was to make it fit until Frederick grew into it.

“Hard to credit, isn't it? A lad so young already a full-fledged wizard.” Hetty double-checked Frederick's measurements and began to pin the fabric. “He must have worked ever so hard.”

“He read the whole time he was here,” said Frederick. “One night, when Bess brought him his dinner on a tray, she watched through the keyhole while he was eating. He never took his nose out of the book the whole time.”

Hetty didn't seem a bit surprised. “Ever so learned, wizards need to be. I expect he works hard just to keep up.”

“Lord Schofield was Mr. Pickering's very first magic teacher.” Frederick hoped that a bit of fresh information would earn some matching gossip from Hetty, but she kept right on pinning his clothes. “He says there's nothing left of the curse but residue. Just scraps of the curse. Lord Schofield can manage residue with ease.”

“To gossip about such matters is to give them strength. You know I won't speak of such things, so don't tease me.” Hetty kept working. “It only stands to reason. The more you pick at a blister, the longer it takes to heal.”

After a long silence, Frederick gave up and played his trump card. “Mr. Pickering was Lord Schofield's servant back when his lordship was in the army.”

“Was he?” Hetty didn't sound very surprised. “He must have been only a few years older than you are now, then. Fancy that. No wonder he had such a taste for my mother's pastry. He was still just a growing lad.” Hetty stepped back to survey her work. “There now. Look at how you've grown! I'll have my work cut out for me with the coat, but your legs are so long, your new breeches nearly fit just as they are.”

Frederick's fidgeting efforts to see what she meant only made the pins scratch him. “They don't feel as if they fit.”

“Give it a chance.” Hetty helped him out of the coat. “Put the old ones on and be off with you. I need to work.”

Mr. Pickering's visit had made Lord Schofield less willing than usual to venture away from Skeynes. Even after the young wizard's departure, he still spent most days closeted in his workroom. This meant that by day Frederick had fewer duties as assistant valet.

“You haven't pestered me to learn anything new in weeks,” Piers announced one morning in late September. “But I've thought of something I can teach you.”

Lord Schofield, his cravat freshly tied, had just gone off about his day's business. The dressing room was still littered with items left from the shave Piers had given his employer. Frederick had five discarded neck cloths to be laundered, pressed, and put away, and his lordship's second-best boots to polish. “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”

“You don't look too pleased.” Piers made himself comfortable in Lord Schofield's chair. “I'm not to teach you how to give a proper shave until you have begun to grow whiskers yourself. Kimball's orders. But I can teach you how to sharpen a razor. That will save a good deal of time every day.”

“That will save
you
a good deal of time every day,” said Frederick.

“Less of your sauce.” Piers opened the case containing Lord Schofield's matched straight razors. “Behold. Before you lies death and disfigurement.”

Frederick studied the steel and ivory implements gleaming against the black plush lining of the case. “That's odd. Looks like a bunch of razors to me.”

“No clowning, you. A razor means danger. In the wrong hands, that is.” Piers selected one of the razors, opened it, and held it up so the wickedly sharp blade caught the light. “In the hands of an expert barber, a razor of good Sheffield steel provides a close shave for his client and an honest means of earning a living for the barber.”

Piers tilted the razor this way and that as they admired the play of light on steel in silence. Then Piers shook himself a little and returned to his lecture topic. “Mind how you handle these. Use one carelessly and you will deserve the beating I'll give you for it.”

“Yes, sir.” Frederick knew Piers was not joking.

“There's an art to honing a razor. For now, you'll leave that to me. What I need you to do is clean the razor I use on his lordship each morning. Today, that will be this one.” Piers handed the razor to Frederick with care. “I've already cleaned it. You can strop it now, get the edge back.”

Frederick didn't tell Piers he already knew how to sharpen knives. Razors could not be very different, but there would be no convincing Piers of that. “Why are there seven razors? Lord Schofield only has one chin.”

“Ah, but he's young yet.” Piers showed Frederick how to use the strop. “Hook it there, that's right. Now hold the other end in your left hand. Make sure the edge of the razor is away from you. Draw it along the leather. Not quite so sharp an angle. You'll nick the strop. That's better.”

Frederick worked hard to memorize every detail of what Piers was showing him. When he had the attention to spare, he asked again, “Why so many razors?”

“The blade needs a rest between shaves. So there's a razor for each day of the week.” Piers adjusted Frederick's grip on the razor. “That's right. Never let the edge come toward you. Careful.”

Frederick found the knack of it. Soon he was stropping and flipping the razor with hardly a break in rhythm.

“That's good.” Piers took the razor back and held it so they could both inspect the edge. “You want to keep the edge as sharp and fine as possible. Turn the edge ever so slightly, and the sharpness is gone. You'll have to hone the razor all over again. Treat it right, a razor only needs its edge honed four times a year. Treat it wrong, and you've made it into a very expensive bit of scrap metal. The cost will be stopped from your wages.”

“That's it for stropping, then?” Frederick asked. “What about cleaning? Do I wash it with soap and water?”

“Rinse it,” Piers answered. “Rinse it clean and blot it dry. Like this. Don't scrub at it with the towel. It's a fine piece of steel, not your silly face. Always remember—the important thing is the edge. When the steel is dry, rub it with mineral oil, same as you would a good cooking pot. Don't use too much oil and don't rub it too much. Remember—”

“The edge, the edge.” Frederick nodded. “I remember.”

“The other thing to watch for is rust. If you ever notice even a speck of rust on the blade, here's what you do.” Piers went through every detail of the care required to keep a razor in good condition. Frederick paid close attention, even though it did not seem complicated or difficult. It was painstaking, but he had always been particularly good at taking pains.

Razor lessons took a long time. As a result, Frederick was late finishing up the neck cloths. As he hung the spotless strips of linen to dry, Frederick wished that Billy Bly was there to help him. He had done all he could to conceal the brownie's presence at Skeynes. Now it seemed wasted effort. There was little to tell that Billy Bly had ever been there at all. Not since Lord and Lady Schofield's arrival had Frederick heard the rustle like wind in the trees, the sound he associated with Billy Bly's presence. Not since then had he felt the sense of companionship when Billy Bly was near. For all he had seen of Billy Bly of late, Frederick thought, he might as well have let Lord Schofield banish him again.

Sometimes, when he was certain Lord Schofield was not in the house, Frederick called Billy Bly. He dared not raise his voice above a whisper, but he called the brownie's name, longing for his companionship. No answer ever came. Brownies, it seemed, did not come when they were called.