The Warlock's Curse (19 page)

“Why was Claire so upset, Jenny?” he asked. “Why did she keep saying ‘no’?”

Jenny’s eyes widened, then became keen and wary.” You understood what she was saying?”

Will nodded. “Sorry. I should have said something. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

“So that’s why you jumped out of your skin when she said I liked you.” Jenny gave him a wan grin. “
Once
liked you.”

“When I could whistle through my teeth,” remembered Will. “Why was she so upset, Jenny? What are you going to do?”

Jenny, who had been letting Will hold her hand without demur, now snatched it away. She stood up. Where there had been tears in her eyes, now there was just anger.

“You promised not to ask me about that,” she said. “Don’t do it again.”

Will didn’t say anything for a long time. “She said it was dangerous,” he said finally.

“You just let me worry about that,” said Jenny.

Will took a deep breath. “I need to tell you something,” he said. “I got a letter from my brother Ben. I finally read it last night. He wants to help me get to Tesla Industries. He’s opened an account for me at the National Bank of Detroit and put money in it. He says it’s enough for me to get started on. For
me
to get started on.”

Jenny stared at him. She was breathing hard, as if about to launch into a furious tirade, but she said nothing. Will shifted uncomfortably under her piercing gaze.

“Anyway, once I get to Berkeley, and the Dimensional Subway, I’m set.” He looked at the handkerchief in Jenny’s hand. She was clutching it so hard her knuckles were white. “I don’t know what you’re thinking of doing. But if you’re thinking of doing it because of me, you don’t have to. We could get the marriage annulled. Things could go back to the way they were.”

“You think I want that?” Jenny whispered.

“I don’t know what you want!” said Will, through clenched teeth. “You’ve made me promise not to ask.”

“And you haven’t even been able to keep that promise!” She bit the words. “Listen to me, William Edwards. Your plans are
not
the only ones I’m concerned about. You may think I’m just part of your plans. But it’s the other way around. You’re part of
my
plans, and I need you.”

“Well maybe I don’t want to be part of your plans, have you thought about that?” Will replied sharply. “Especially when you won’t even tell me what they are!”

“I
have
told you!” she said hotly, voice rising. “I want to file your patent. I want to see that your work is protected.” Then, in a culmination of pique, she threw the handkerchief at him. “And I want my share of the profit!”

He couldn’t help but smile at that. He picked up the handkerchief in two fingers, grimacing at its dampness. “Well then,” he said. “We’d better get going. But no more crying, because I only have one handkerchief.”

“Unless ... you’re trying to ditch me?” she said, and suddenly her voice was small and uncertain. “Are you trying to ditch me, William? Don’t you want me to go to Detroit with you?”

“Of course I do!” Will said, jumping to his feet. Then, aware that he’d spoken too quickly, cleared his throat. “I mean, if you want to.”

“I do,” she said softly.

The sun was sinking swiftly behind Mount Diablo as the California Navigation and Improvement riverboat
H.J. Corcoran
steamed out of Stockton. It was an all-night trip to San Francisco (with many stops along the way to pick up passengers and freight), fifty cents per passenger and a dollar for a sleeping cabin.

Will paid for the cabin, but he knew it would be far too small for both of them to sleep in decently. And it would seem suspicious for a young married couple—who would presumably have no scruples about decency—to buy two. Thus, when the hour got late, Will left Jenny to sleep in the cabin and went down to the hold make himself as comfortable as he could within the Baker’s close confines.

Automobiles were common enough now that Will hadn’t had any difficulty convincing the stevedores to load Pask’s machine on alongside the horse teams. The hold, loaded with produce bound for sale in the San Francisco markets, smelled of San Joaquin River mud and the dray horses’ pungent leavings. A chill, low-hanging fog blanketed the dark water, and Will shivered as he wrapped his motoring duster close.

There was no light in the hold, save a low-burning kerosene lamp that swung in a brass gimbal. So Will switched on the Baker’s headlamps and went to sit in front of the car. Consulting his wristwatch to ensure that it was past midnight, he pulled Ben’s letter out of his pocket. To his astonishment, he discovered that the text had entirely changed.

Dear Will:

First, I’ve got to tell you something important that I forgot to write in my last letter. The minute Mother figures out you’ve really gone, she’s going to Send for you, and the longer you don’t answer the madder she’s going to get ... and you know, when she’s mad, the Sends hurt worse. So you’d better know what to do about it.

There’s no nice way to put this ... you have to be willing to hurt yourself. The only way to really break a Send is with pain. And it can’t be just a pinch. It’s got to hurt and hurt bad. Stab a pin into your leg, burn a match against your arm, something like that. It will break the Send and give her second thoughts about Sending for you again.

Will absorbed this information, brow wrinkled. What did that mean, “give her second thoughts?” Would breaking the Send hurt Ma’am as much as it hurt him? Will didn’t like that thought at all. Ma’am’s Sends were annoying, but they weren’t worth hurting her for. Shaking his head, he continued to read.

Now that’s out of the way, I want to get to the business at hand—and that’s telling you the truth—the real truth, as opposed to whatever our parents may have told you. Or, for that matter, what our brothers have told you, for you are no better off trusting any of them than you are trusting Father. He’s made each one of them into a perfect little replica of himself. Parts of himself, anyhow.

First of all, I wasn’t “sent away.” I left when I was thirteen—by mutual agreement. They probably told you I was intractable. I wasn’t. I simply wanted something Father didn’t want me to want, and as you have discovered, in our family, that’s on a par with being a boy who tortures cats or sets barn fires. But I imagine what you’re most interested in is why I fought with Father. Because of all the secrets that have been kept from you, I’m sure it’s the one that’s been kept most carefully.

Here, Will began reading more quickly.

The fight happened just after you were born. Father and Uncle Royce called all of us boys into Father’s study. Uncle Royce closed the door and he locked it. I remember Father had you in his arms—he was holding you so gently. You wouldn’t imagine it, but he was always very good with babies. Mother wasn’t there—she was sleeping, I think. You were a late baby—she was over forty when she had you—and the birth had been very difficult.

Now, it gets a little strange.

Will lifted an eyebrow. As if it wasn’t strange already, this story told on a magical sheet of paper, filled with family secrets that he wasn’t supposed to know!

It was Uncle Royce who made the bizarre announcement. He said that in order to forestall the possibility of any of us contracting Black Flu, we were all going to be inoculated with Panchrest immediately. That very night.

Can you understand just how bizarre this announcement was, Will? First of all, one doesn’t “catch” Black Flu. It’s the severest form of magical allergy, but it is no more contagious than hayfever. Also, the very concept of Panchrest inoculation was unheard of at the time. These days, of course, the question of mandatory immunization is a topic of intense national debate—with our own brother Argus making political hay out of his Anti-Immunization stance, which I find ironic in the extreme, given what happened that night. My point is, in 1892, when this happened, there was no talk of using the Panchrest preventatively. There was no discussion of “busting the Mantic Trust” or any such foolishness.

But Uncle Royce told us that we were all to be inoculated that night. Father did not speak, but simply sat behind his desk, five hypodermic syringes lined up before him. One for each of us.

Argus, Laddie, and Nate submitted without protest. And you, of course, could not struggle, for you were only an infant.

When it my turn came, however, I refused. I knew how the Panchrest worked—by irreversibly blocking the magical channels in the human body. Taking the shot would render me incapable of ever practicing magic. And I had been planning a career in magic all my life. I’d never made any secret of it. Little brother, there was nothing I wanted more than to be a warlock.

I could have been one, too—a real one, as powerful as an Old User. There were only two of us boys who could—Argus and me, both of us born before 1878, the year of The Great Change. And as I’d just seen Argus take the shot, at that moment I was the only one left.

Magic has lineages, Will. Sure, Mother was just a hedgewitch, and her magical lineage wasn’t especially powerful or distinguished. But it was hers. And it was ours. And it was mine. And Father wanted to take it away from me.

When it became clear that I was going to kick up one holy hell of a fuss, Uncle Royce sent the other boys out of the room. Of course, they all stayed right by the door to listen through the keyhole. So then it was just Father, Uncle Royce, and me. And you, of course.

I told them both to go to hell.

Secretly, I believed Uncle Royce would help me. I know you don’t like him, Will. None of the brothers do. But he’s always been more like a father to me than Father ever was. And at least he tried to comfort me—unlike our own father, who could only stare at me with the coldest eyes I’ve ever seen.

Uncle Royce told me he knew people at the Stanton Institute. He promised me that he would find a way for me to study there. But what good would that do me? I kicked and screamed. I fought. I wasn’t going to let them take magic away from me. But it was two-on-one, Will. And they were both strong.

Uncle Royce held me down in a chair. Father gave me the shot.

And that was the end of me.

No more room. I wish I had thought to nick two sheets of stationery from the Sophos’ office. Maybe I’ll revive the old art of writing crossways lines next time. But for tonight, I guess that’s enough.

Your brother always,

Ben

Will sat back, exhaling a gulped breath he hadn’t been aware of was holding. It congealed in the cool night air, swirling in the harsh beam of the Baker’s headlights.

My God
, thought Will. It was monstrous.

How could Father and Uncle Royce have
done
that to him? And then, in all the years that followed, maintain that everything had been Ben’s fault?

He could hardly believe it of his father. Father may have never appreciated Will’s passion for Otherwhere Engineering—but other than opposing the apprenticeship he’d never done anything to actively thwart it. He’d never done anything to Will like he’d done to Ben—destroying all his hopes with such utter thoroughness. It would be like blinding him and chopping off his hands.

Will folded the letter and carefully returned it to his pocket, letting his hand rest over it for a few moments. Then he crawled into the Baker and turned off the lights.

But he knew there was no way he’d be able to sleep.

Chapter Seven

The Rally

26
DAYS UNTIL THE FULL MOON

T
he
H.J. Corcoran
was scheduled to make two stops along the San Francisco wharves—the first at Pier 27 to unload the cargo, and the second at Pier Three to unload passengers. The second stop, at the Ferry Terminal building at the foot of Market Street, would have been more convenient, but Will and Jenny had to get off at the first, because it was the only place where the Baker could be unloaded.