Chapter Text
I’m the scientific sort, in general. Or at least I flatter myself that I have a rational mind. Over the past couple of years, however, I’ve had a lot of rethinking to do about the nature of science and rationality (or possibly the science and rationality of nature). A lot of rethinking about most things, actually. Partially to blame for this was Isaac Newton and his illicit dabblings into the world of magic, which is something the two of us now had in common- well, that and a complex relationship with apples, but that’s another story. Part time, unsanctioned wizard though I now am (and yes, I did have to pinch myself, regularly, because I can do magic ), I still have a legitimate, and I like to think equally cool, front to maintain: that of an up and coming young architect.
Apparently, it wasn’t all that common for a practitioner (the Folly doesn’t like people outside their hallowed halls to be referred to as ‘wizards’- not that I care much what they think- and ‘magician’ sounds a bit too Paul Daniels) to also be interested in architecture. It wasn’t unheard of, at least now, but it wasn’t as much of a thing as I’d have thought it would have been, especially given the fact building materials maintain vestigium better than almost anything else. Except plastic, it turns out, but that’s just weird.
Vestigia is the term given to the imprint magic leaves behind; and it does a really good job of leaving it on old buildings. Of course, ‘magic’ is a broad term; it doesn’t have to be that someone was casting spells in the area, other things leave their mark, too; strong emotions, dramatic events and even smells can linger long after their time. Most people don’t notice these things, they just brush them off as flights of fancy or their own memories, but I’d had training, not to mention a professional interest in knowing all I could about the history of an area. It makes for a more authentic build.
That was why, at 9pm on a cold, January night, rather than being sat at home in front of the tele with a takeaway and central heating at full blast, I was casually groping the foundation stones of an old building near to University College. The recently demolished 60s labs had stood on top of some much older ruins which I hadn’t been able to find much information about when consulting the traditional research tools of old town plans and Wikipedia. I was just about to make a note of some of the sensations I’d experienced in a book I’d taken to carrying around with me- there were quite a lot of them; as I said, old building- when I came to the unsettling realisation that I was being watched.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a figure in the shadows. A slender man of average height wearing an old fashioned suit of the sort one Thomas Nightingale- my magical teacher, friend and now longterm partner in bed / possibly crime if you ask almost anyone at the Folly, which I wouldn’t recommend- favoured. Turning to look directly at him, because, frankly, it’s not rude to stare back at someone, I saw that he wore similarly outdated glasses and a mild, curious expression and had a shock of unruly dark hair. When he caught my eye, he smiled and rubbed at the back of his neck, a gesture of embarrassment, I thought.
“Hullo,” he greeted me, his voice suiting his dress sense, “did you find what you were looking for?”
I stood up, because though he seemed friendly enough he was still clearly a bit of a weirdo and I didn’t particularly want to be at a disadvantage. “Yeah, maybe,” I answered as noncommittally as I could.
The man nodded sagely, as if I’d made some profound remark, but made no move to come closer. In fact, he appeared so concerned about staying out of the light that I felt that unpleasant shivering sensation that I often did when encountering something that Thomas would term ‘uncanny’ for the first time. I was just attempting to figure out a way of assessing whether or not he was actually a ghost (it didn’t seem polite to just come out and ask him), or just a bloke with sensitive eyes and an anachronistic fashion sense, when he introduced himself.
“David Mellenby.”
My ears started ringing and I think I must have gaped. The man- Mellenby- rubbed his neck again and stepped forwards. I could see right through him. This wasn’t as much of a surprise as it might have been if I hadn’t seen several ghosts before by this point, but I was still reeling with shock from his introduction.
Mellenby, clearly having interpreted my stunned silence as a reaction to his incorporeal state, gave me a sympathetic look. “Terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you, but one does get so bored of milling about out of sight and out of mind. I’ve tried experimenting with different light intensities and speculations about the refractive index of ghostly matter, but it makes no odds. My body, such as it is, remains stubbornly translucent.”
My mouth worked silently several times, and he cocked his head in a look of wry amusement that reminded me of Thomas. Holy crap, Thomas. I think he was expecting me to react as any normal person might have and shriek ‘ghost!’ before fleeing. Or possibly fainting. Instead, when words finally came, they were incredulous for a different reason entirely, “you’re David Mellenby?”
The man. Ghost. Mellenby, blinked a couple of times and frowned. “Yes, I am. If not in body, then certainly in spirit. I must say that I’m surprised you’ve heard of me. A touch flattered, perhaps, but then…” his expression turned darkly serious, “that rather depends on the context.”
“Oh, no! Nothing like… I’ve only heard good things,” I tried to reassure him, but how do you go about comforting a ghost? “I learned all about you in my free time at university...” well, maybe not all about him. Not then, anyway, that came later. “Your work on the science of magic was absolutely…” realising that I was sounding dangerously like a raging fanboy, I stopped abruptly.
Mellenby looked pleased, if a little surprised, and was regarding me curiously. “You were up at Oxford?” ‘Up’ being posh-boy speak for ‘at university in,’ I presumed, rather than a question about day trips.
I shook my head, “I’m an architect. I went to Coventry.” Coventry is the perfect setting for an idealistic young student architect because it’s very easy to imagine how much better things might be if you could just flatten the whole lot of it and try again. Just as long as you didn’t think too much about what it looked like before the war compared to now…
Ghost Mellenby’s transparent features creased into a frown, “but you are a practitioner? Or at least you are familiar with vestigium ; why else would you be so interested in those old stones?”
I couldn’t think of a way to explain the convoluted process by which I became an apprentice- not without being there all night, in any case- so I cast a pristine werelight by way of explanation, the luminous white ball hovering just above my hand.
As it turned out, this might not have been my brightest moment. Every wizard has their own particular magic signature- their signare - which makes every spell unique to its caster. As a mere wet eared apprentice, I had yet to develop a signare of my own, unless you count my unfortunate tendency to blow things up, and so my spells closely resembled those of my Master (in a purely apprentice-pupil sense, you understand), that is to say-
“Thomas,” the ghost exclaimed and shot backwards as if he had been burned. I’d barely had time to process what happened, let alone try to formulate an explanation, before David Mellenby faded from sight, as if he had never been.
Shit.