The Midnight Queen by Sylvia Izzo Hunter Read Free Book Online Page A

temporarily thrown the household, Sophie had taken Joanna with her when she fled the melancholy house to ramble around the park. They searched for frogs and water-snakes; they picked flowers and wove daisy-chains; they sang together (Sophie tunefully, Joanna in her small, earnest monotone); and Joanna seemed to feel happier. Sophie, after a time, had begun to feel happier also.
    *   *   *
    Sophie blinked, stretched, and rolled her cramped shoulders with a sigh. It was a relief to have Joanna back again, however uncomfortable she might make things with the Professor and Amelia. Joanna did not mock her interest in magickal theory and, unlike Amelia, could be relied upon not to reveal her reading habits to the Professor. Unfortunately, Joanna was also unlikely to be helpful in her quest to decipher Gaius Aegidius. Now, Gray, on the other hand . . .
    The sound of footsteps in the corridor outside warned Sophie that dawn was approaching, and with the ease of long practice she replaced the codex on its shelf, slipped out of the door, and crept back up the stairs to her bed.

CHAPTER III
    In Which Gray Writes a Letter and Makes a Pilgrimage
    My dear Jenny, Gray wrote,
I hope this finds you very well.
    Sighing, he put down his pen and raised his face to the window. It was late evening, and all over the grounds of Callender Hall darkness was absolute. At the moment Gray wanted nothing more than to be out in that darkness, flying. He knew very well that he was not yet recovered enough to execute a shape-shift and would only tumble to his death on the flagstones below. But he yearned towards his broad wings and round owl eyes, the loft of an updraught, the tiny night sounds—despite the disastrous ending of his last such flight.
    Grim-faced, he picked up the pen.
    You may have heard distressing tidings of my doings, Jenny. I hope you have not been anxious on my account. Be easy: I am well and mostly whole, and I believe no permanent damage has been done.
    As I wrote from Oxford, my tutor has invited me to be his guest in the country—your country, I should rather say—until the next term begins. His house and gardens are situated in a most beautiful part of the country, as tranquil as one could wish—a charming prospect all in all. I am as well occupied here as I could possibly be elsewhere.
    Gray looked up again, chewing the end of his pen. The number of things he could safely write about was pitifully small compared to the many more interesting subjects which he would have liked to discuss with Jenny—with any friendly and sympathetic person, for that matter. If only such a person were to hand!
    He longed to confide more fully in Sophie. But of what use—beyond relieving his feelings—could such a confidence be to either of them? A poverty-stricken student mage, estranged from his parents, who (so ran the Professor’s tale) had had to be rescued through the kind offices of his tutor from rustication—or worse—was no suitable acquaintance, still less a suitable friend, for the daughter of any respectable man. Sophie would wish to help him, he knew, but he saw no means for her to do so—only myriad opportunities to antagonise her father, which would do Gray no good, and might do Sophie harm.
    There was nothing to be done, then, but write to Jenny and wait to see what came of it.
    I have told you before of my tutor, Professor Callender. Also in his household are his three daughters, among whom is one at least whose acquaintance I think you might very much enjoy.
    After another long moment’s window-gazing, he added,
    I understand, too, that the library is very fine, though I have yet to see it.
    This was the broadest hint he dared drop that he was prisoner and not guest.
    What else was there to say? It would all depend, he supposed, on how Jenny replied; if it were not safe to write openly, if his letter had been tampered with either before or after its arrival,