“Magic is the only honest profession. A magician promises to deceive you and he does.”
—Karl Germain257Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAwmJQJuai1
Prologue
England
Autumn, 1866
*
Symon Rudhale peered at the flames that fluttered in the stale air and pondered the best method of escape.
“Ten months I have waited for this concoction, Mr. Rudhale.”
Symon tore his gaze from the candles on his desk and turned to the weathered man in front of him. He brandished a smile. “I am aware.”
“Ten months I have paid you for your efforts.” The elder man’s voice reached a falsetto as his fury surmounted. “I am very tempted to call upon an Inspector, Mr. Rudhale.”
Symon’s smile strained. “Unnecessary.” He nabbed the glass of wine that sat on his desk, then reclined in the plush wingback. “Have yourself a drink, your spirits are low.”
The ancient man’s face flushed a shade of burgundy Symon hadn’t witnessed before. “Insulting, how insulting! You’re just trying to intoxicate me so I can lower my defenses.” He lowered his sharp tone, eyes widening behind his spectacles. “So you can use your magic on me.”
Symon pursed his lips, eyes focused on the maroon contents of his glass. “That’s what I’m doing, Mr. Woodsworth?” His mouth tugged up at a corner. “Manipulating you?”
Mr. Woodsworth paced forward, hands slapping across the desktop so harshly that the candles on the desktop shook. “You are stalling, Mr. Rudhale. Where is my potion?”
Despite the outburst, Symon’s smile did not falter. He took a long sip of his wine, gaze steady on the seething man before him. “My offer still stands on that drink.” Symon took in the raggedness of the man’s breath, watched his fingers clutch at the tabletop. “Anger is quite an unsightly emotion on you.”
The elder jerked up, a gnarled finger pointed at the young man in accusation. “Ah!” he exclaimed, his eyes alighting as if he had just discovered a trove of secrets. “You haven’t started on it at all, have you? That’s it!”
Silence crept into the parlor, until Symon interrupted it with a chuckle. “Mr. Woodsworth, you have such faint hope in me.” He rose to his feet and set down the glass of wine with care. Symon crossed over to the left side of the room, where most of the wall was covered in shelves. His eyes roved over the vials and flasks that took up the ledges, searching for just one in particular. He held up a bottle and gave it a tap. The plum-colored liquid shuddered. “Laedra No. 3. Aged four months.” He handed the vial carefully to Mr. Woodsworth, who snatched at it like an overzealous child.
Another round of silence trickled into the room.
Mr. Woodsworth shifted uncomfortably, a mixture of wonder and contempt plastered on his face. “Are you sure this is it?” he inquired after a few moments. He gave the flask a quick shake, scrutinizing the fluid inside. “Looks rather...bland.”
Symon smirked. “That ‘bland’ potion is the cure to all of your ailments, Mr. Woodsworth.”
Mr. Woodsworth’s face contorted into an expression of confusion, then awe. “Every last one?”
Symon nodded, smile spreading. “Well, except anger. Your anger specifically.”
Mr. Woodsworth’s wiry eyebrows framed the cruel look in his eyes. “My anger? Are you suggesting that I’m just a sour old man?”
Symon held his tongue. He offered a shrug. “Nothing of the sort.”
The wrinkles embedded around Mr. Woodsworth’s mouth shifted as he scowled. “Let’s give my bitterness a test then, hm?”
Symon simply stared, his face as placid as a still lake.
Mr. Woodsworth, after moments of struggling, managed to pop the cork off the vial. He squinted at the bottle, then huffed. “Still as bland as before.” He glanced to the other man, who had retreated to the comfort of his desk chair, his eyes transfixed on the candle before him. “I’m surprised there’s no flourish, Mr. Rudhale. Is this a joke? I’ve seen your other potions.” He paused at the lack of response from Symon. “A lousy magician,” he muttered under his foul smelling breath. “Hopefully of a dying breed.”
“What about that test, Mr. Woodsworth?” came Symon’s voice. He had his chin propped atop his tented fingers. “Are you willing to put my name to shame?” His humorous tone, as always, leaked through. “Is that potion you're holding truly as bland as it appears?”
Mr. Woodsworth blinked at the man, then cast his disgusted glance to the bottle. “Let’s hope your potion is worth all the money I shelled out to you.” In a matter of moments he lifted the bottle to his lips and downed the contents. He was still for a few seconds, gauging the potion as it slid down his throat. And paused. “I waited ten months for this lousy spell?” He cast the bottle to the floor, where it shattered onto the carpet.
Symon hardly flinched. He simply watched the man as he hurried to the door and swung it open. “Don’t be shocked when you see an Inspector at your doorstep, Mr. Rudhale. In fact, I will make certain that he will arrive tomorrow, before the morning light even breaks across the sky—”
The man paused as his words became garbled. Alarm flashed across his face as his body sagged forward. He toppled to the floor, body sprawling out across the doorway. A clear line of blood, deep crimson, dripped from his mouth.
Symon hardly glanced up from his desk or the candle that imprinted his shadow against the wall. Mr. Woodsworth’s death was no surprise, for the potion was not an elixir.
It was poison.
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