uncertainly.
"Yes, Miss Price, we do," affirmed Carey. "Don't be discouraged.
You'll pick it all up again, easy as pie, once you set your mind to it."
'
"You think I will?" asked Miss Price wanly. "You're not just
saying that?"
"I know it," said Carey, nodding her head.
Miss Price patted her hair as if she felt it had come out of place. "I
hope you're right," she said, in her usual voice. "And in the meantime,
as you have had some experience, and providing you went somewhere really educational
and took every precaution and were very, very careful, I don't see"- she
looked at them gravely, almost speculatively, and she drew in her breath- "how
one little trip into the past could hurt anyone."
THE "PAST"
In London, during the reign of King Charles II, there lived a necromancer. (******
These six stars are to give you time to ask what is a necromancer. Now you know,
we will go on.) He lived in a little house in Cripplegate in a largish room
at the top of a narrow flight of stairs. He was a very nervous man and disliked
the light of day. There were two good reasons for this; I will tell you the
first.
When he was a boy, he had been apprenticed to another necromancer, an old man
from whom he had inherited the business. The old necromancer, in private life,
was fat and jolly, but in the presence of his clients he became solemn as an
owl and clothed his fat whiteness in a long dark robe edged with fur so that
he could fill them with respect and awe. Without his smile, and in his long
dark robe, he looked as important as a mayor and as gloomy as a lawyer's clerk.
The young necromancer, whose name was Emelius Jones, worked very hard to learn
his trade. It was he who had to turn out at ten to twelve on cold moonlight
nights to collect cats from graveyards and walk the lonely beaches in the gray
dawn seeking seven white stones of equal size wet by the last wave of the neap
tide. It was he who had to mash up erbs with pestle and mortar and crawl down
drains after rats.
The old necromancer would sit by the fire, with his feet on a footstool, drinking
hot sack with a dash of cinnamon, and nod his head saying: "Well done,
my boy, well done. . . ."
The young necromancer would work for hours by candlelight, studying the chart
of the heavens and learning to read the stars. He would twist the globe on the
ebony stand until his brain too rotated on its own axis. On sweltering afternoons
he would be sent out to the country on foot to trudge through the fading heather,
seeking blindworms and adders and striped snails. He had to climb belfries after
bats, rob churches for tallow, and blow down glass tubes at green slime till
the blood sang in his ears and his eyes bulged.
When the old necromancer was dying, he sent for his assistant and said: "My
boy, there is something I should tell you."
Emelius folded his stained hands in his lap and dropped his tired eyes respectfully.
"Yes, sir," he murmured.
The old necromancer moved his head so that it fitted more comfortably into the
pillow.
"It's about magic," he said.
"Yes, sir," replied Emelius soberly.
The old necromancer smiled slyly at the carved ceiling. "There isn't such
a thing."
Emelius raised a pair of startled eyes. "You mean-" he began.
"I mean," said the old necromancer calmly, "what I say!"
When Emelius had got over the first sense of shock (he never completely recovered),
the old necromancer went on:
"All the same, it's a good paying business. I've kept a wife and five daughters
out at Deptford (whence I shall be carried tomorrow), with a carriage and four,
fifteen servants, French music teacher, and a bark on the river. Three daughters
have married well. I have two sons-in-law at court and a third in Lombard Street."'He
sighed. "Your poor father, may he rest in peace, paid me handsomely for
"Yes, Miss Price, we do," affirmed Carey. "Don't be discouraged.
You'll pick it all up again, easy as pie, once you set your mind to it."
'
"You think I will?" asked Miss Price wanly. "You're not just
saying that?"
"I know it," said Carey, nodding her head.
Miss Price patted her hair as if she felt it had come out of place. "I
hope you're right," she said, in her usual voice. "And in the meantime,
as you have had some experience, and providing you went somewhere really educational
and took every precaution and were very, very careful, I don't see"- she
looked at them gravely, almost speculatively, and she drew in her breath- "how
one little trip into the past could hurt anyone."
THE "PAST"
In London, during the reign of King Charles II, there lived a necromancer. (******
These six stars are to give you time to ask what is a necromancer. Now you know,
we will go on.) He lived in a little house in Cripplegate in a largish room
at the top of a narrow flight of stairs. He was a very nervous man and disliked
the light of day. There were two good reasons for this; I will tell you the
first.
When he was a boy, he had been apprenticed to another necromancer, an old man
from whom he had inherited the business. The old necromancer, in private life,
was fat and jolly, but in the presence of his clients he became solemn as an
owl and clothed his fat whiteness in a long dark robe edged with fur so that
he could fill them with respect and awe. Without his smile, and in his long
dark robe, he looked as important as a mayor and as gloomy as a lawyer's clerk.
The young necromancer, whose name was Emelius Jones, worked very hard to learn
his trade. It was he who had to turn out at ten to twelve on cold moonlight
nights to collect cats from graveyards and walk the lonely beaches in the gray
dawn seeking seven white stones of equal size wet by the last wave of the neap
tide. It was he who had to mash up erbs with pestle and mortar and crawl down
drains after rats.
The old necromancer would sit by the fire, with his feet on a footstool, drinking
hot sack with a dash of cinnamon, and nod his head saying: "Well done,
my boy, well done. . . ."
The young necromancer would work for hours by candlelight, studying the chart
of the heavens and learning to read the stars. He would twist the globe on the
ebony stand until his brain too rotated on its own axis. On sweltering afternoons
he would be sent out to the country on foot to trudge through the fading heather,
seeking blindworms and adders and striped snails. He had to climb belfries after
bats, rob churches for tallow, and blow down glass tubes at green slime till
the blood sang in his ears and his eyes bulged.
When the old necromancer was dying, he sent for his assistant and said: "My
boy, there is something I should tell you."
Emelius folded his stained hands in his lap and dropped his tired eyes respectfully.
"Yes, sir," he murmured.
The old necromancer moved his head so that it fitted more comfortably into the
pillow.
"It's about magic," he said.
"Yes, sir," replied Emelius soberly.
The old necromancer smiled slyly at the carved ceiling. "There isn't such
a thing."
Emelius raised a pair of startled eyes. "You mean-" he began.
"I mean," said the old necromancer calmly, "what I say!"
When Emelius had got over the first sense of shock (he never completely recovered),
the old necromancer went on:
"All the same, it's a good paying business. I've kept a wife and five daughters
out at Deptford (whence I shall be carried tomorrow), with a carriage and four,
fifteen servants, French music teacher, and a bark on the river. Three daughters
have married well. I have two sons-in-law at court and a third in Lombard Street."'He
sighed. "Your poor father, may he rest in peace, paid me handsomely for
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