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One peaceful Sunday morning in mid-June I found myself rudely awakened by the muffled but still impressive sound of an explosion.
If you have lived at the Folly long enough, you’ll know this to be pretty much the daily fare and probably just turn over in your bed, cover your ears with a pillow and simply go back to sleep, before you find yourself roped into cleaning duties.
However, I’ve been repeatedly reminded that the saying “curiosity killed the wizard’s apprentice” had been specifically adjusted in my honour and as such I was practically bound to get up and check what my mentors had gotten up to at this early morning hour.
I blinked.
Sun was streaming in through the coloured glass of my window. A rare sight belying the profanities that were probably being uttered several floors beneath my room at that very moment. We don’t usually get a lot of sun in these parts, for which my governor is splendid proof.
Nightingale is unusually pale even for a white guy. I knew that he had spent a lot of time abroad working for the Folly – where exactly I wasn’t sure, but seeing as how most countries seem to get more sun than England, there’s a good chance he spent some time in one of them. I briefly tried to picture a young, sun-tanned Nightingale, but all I could come up with was the image of him lying on some beach in very old-fashioned swimming trunks (or what I imagined old-fashioned beach fashion looked like), probably reading a book in some obscure dead language. I shook my head and tried to fight my way out of bed to explore the source of the noise before my sleepy mind could wander any further down that road. I’ve been told by most people I’ve crossed paths with more than once that I have trouble focussing. I guess I can’t blame them.
I put on an Edwardian dressing gown (a present from Molly) and stumbled down the grand staircase (still fumbling with one of the sleeves) and towards the back of the entrance hall (who put a knot in that belt again?) to the stairs that led down to the labs (because you don’t just show up in shorts and an oversized t-shirt in this house, especially not on a Sunday). My instincts had been right as it turned out. David Mellenby is the only person I know who blows up more stuff than I do, much to Nightingale’s distress. I suppose he’s questioned his decision to take me on as an apprentice more than once.
Nightingale is officially my master (or mentor, as I prefer to call him), the one I swore my oath to, but he and Mellenby have split the task of educating me between them, since Nightingale’s understanding of natural sciences is somewhat shady and Mellenby’s linguistic skills and historical knowledge are dodgy at best. In addition, it gives both of them enough time to meddle in their own fields of expertise. Why that had to be at 7 o’clock in the morning on a Sunday, I have no idea.
Nightingale’s hobbies certainly cause less turmoil, I’ll grant you that. The loudest he ever gets is to dropping a folio (not that that happens very often. He’s very careful with his books). For a man who can take out a tank without breaking a sweat, he’s frighteningly quiet. I guess that just proves once again that the quietest men are usually the most dangerous. Or was it the other way around?
I arrived at the main lab to find Molly leaning in the door frame with a broad grin on her face, her eyes open wide with excitement. I joined her and took in the pandemonium spread out in front of us.
I gaped at the scenario for a few seconds and then broke into a wide grin myself. A pile of shards and ashes graced one of the lab tables. The entire area was blackened and still smoking in several places, but most fires had been put out by a number of small rain clouds that dutifully saved the Folly from turning into London’s last charcoal kiln. A particularly large cloud was hanging menacingly over Mellenby’s head, whose blackened hair was plastered over his equally sooted face. He was leaping across the room, trying to evade the imminent brash which patiently but steadily followed him with admirable determination, while shouting profanities at my governor.
Nightingale was standing at one end of the lab (at a safe distance from the floods), arms crossed and smirking.
“In the name of Ben Franklin, Thomas, don’t you think a fire extinguisher would have sufficed? That’s why we keep them, you know?” he huffed, while dodging one of the smaller clouds that had come threateningly close. I briefly wondered what would happen if two of the clouds were to float into each other. Would they merge? Or cause a miniature thunderstorm? I get distracted, I told you.
“And cover the entire room in extinguishing foam? Molly would serve us cold tea for months!”
He and Molly exchanged the briefest of knowing looks.
He was rewarded with another charge of colourful curses that made him raise both of his eyebrows in a disapproving manner, but his smile didn’t falter.
The spectacle continued for another five minute, before Nightingale finally took pity on Mellenby and the rain clouds quietly dissolved, leaving a dripping wizard standing in a pool of magically conjured water.
Turns out even Mellenby hasn’t found a way to break the spell. Good to know. Maybe it could only be broken by the one who cast it? Or maybe Nightingale had figured it out and hadn’t thought it necessary to share the knowledge? I would have to inquire into the matter at some point.
“Well, I suppose we could all use a cup of tea after this” he said. “Good morning, Peter”, he added politely and with perfect nonchalance and made his way upstairs.Very English. David followed him, dripping wet soot all over the floor and was promptly stopped by Molly when he tried to walk past her. She wordlessly pressed a mop into his hands and eyed him and then the room with a stern look. Turns out her position had been more strategic than I had initially given her credit for.
I grinned and made my way back to bed.