A Scholar of Magics by Caroline Stevermer Page B

man sufficiently famous and fashionable that the newspaper saw fit to report his lightest deed, had delivered a speech to the Royal Society the day before. Among the members mentioned as addressing questions to the speaker afterward was Nicholas Fell.
    Lambert was startled at the relief he felt. No unexplained disappearance after all. Bridgewater had spoken on the history of the armillary sphere, with particular emphasis on the one handed down through generations of his family. Fell’s interest in armillary spheres was not as intense as his self-education in the measurement of time, but it was more than sufficient to send him to town to attend a speech without mentioning his plans. If he had bothered to leave Lambert a message, it had somehow gone astray.
    Lambert put the newspaper down, surprised at how late
the hour had become. A trip into town might be a good idea. Fell was probably doing research there. Lambert knew which club Fell favored. The intrusion into his study at Winterset would annoy Fell considerably. He would want to know about it sooner, not later.
    There was the possibility Meredith might have more tests of marksmanship for Lambert planned for the next day. If so, Meredith would have to postpone them. Lambert would make sure he left before any possible summons might come from that quarter.
    Sleep came easily to Lambert that night. London first thing in the morning, that was the plan. Lambert always felt happier when he knew what he was going to do with himself. A day in London would make a bracing change.
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    I n the morning, London still seemed like a good idea. Lambert let himself out into the cool early silence. Glasscastle had only begun to stir itself. The sky was clear. Lambert thought it promised to be another warm day.
    Glasscastle Station was inconveniently distant from both the university and the town itself. The strategy, Lambert had once been told, was that the harder it was for the undergraduates to get to the railway station, the harder it would be for them to abandon their studies to go live it up in London. Whether the strategy worked or not, and it seemed by and large not to, there was no question that it was a long walk to the railway station.
    Lambert walked down Silver Street as far as the Haymarket before he struck it lucky with a drayman he knew from previous venturesome mornings.

    â€œYou’re out early.” The drayman made room on the box to give Lambert a ride to the station. “In trouble, are you?”
    â€œNot this time.” Lambert gauged the driver’s degree of disappointment at that news and searched for some bit of entertainment to offer in return for his ride. “I knew a fellow once. You could say he got in trouble.”
    The driver looked pleased. “Bison, was it? Or bears?”
    â€œWorse than either,” said Lambert. “Women.”
    â€œAh.” Deep satisfaction from the driver.
    Lambert took that as permission to carry on spinning his yarn. “This fellow was named Max and he was sweet on a girl called Agatha, but Agatha’s pa didn’t think Max was the man for her. He set up a shooting contest. Winner takes Agatha.”
    â€œThis Max was a cowboy?” The driver looked dubious. He turned down Barking Lane on the way to Headstone Road and eventually the railway station.
    Lambert had the advantage of aimlessness. He had no particular train in mind so it didn’t matter if he were late or not. He’d take the drayman’s meandering route to the station and whatever train came next, that would be his. “Yup. Best shot you ever saw. But he wasn’t so sure of himself that he’d risk his girl. So he listened to his friend Caspar. Caspar was a cowpuncher who had traveled in some mighty strange places, and he came back with a Sharp’s rifle and five cartridges that he swore would hit anything he wanted them to. He promised Max that he’d loan him his rifle for the shooting contest.”