Spells and Sensibility Read online

  Spells and Sensibility

  By K.L. Noone and K.S. Murphy

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2022 K.L. Noone and K.S. Murphy

  ISBN 9781685500337

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  K.L. Noone—For Patricia C. Wrede, for all the stories. And for Kells, who said yes without hesitation when I said, “Hey, what if we did a thing…” and who always inspires me to come up with more words.

  K.S. Murphy—For Jackie, for all the laughs, the murder mystery dates, and the searching for Big Ben antics. I wouldn't change us for anything! Thank you for being my person, Soulmate. And to my fabulous co-author, Luni, who is always such a pleasure to work with, and was kind enough to invite me to follow her into this wonderful world.

  * * * *

  Spells and Sensibility

  By K.L. Noone and K.S. Murphy

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 1

  Theodore Burnett did not like surprises.

  Theo did like order and tidiness, which made him an excellent head librarian for the Royal College of Wizardry. Certain requests might be unusual or challenging—Theo never had worked out how young Mr Graceleigh had managed to turn that copy of Stones and Ley-Lines of England into actual stone itself, though he’d patiently undone the spell-knot and rescued the poor book—but in general his days were predictable, regulated, neatly catalogued as his shelves.

  Everything in place. Magicians politely placing requests for rare back-room volumes using the forms he provided. Readers and students and researchers tucked away quietly at their own individual desks. All according to order, and if anything wasn’t he’d fix it promptly.

  He preferred life that way. Less messy. More comfortable. More sensible: following rational principles, instead of adding to the bumbling chaos of the world. Particularly now, a bulwark against the outside world and the ebbing wake of war and Napoleon’s ambitions and the loss of so many of England’s young bright magicians.

  Theo’s library was a refuge. Familiar. Structured. Everything put to rights, as expected.

  All of which was why, gazing at the scruffy long-legged man presently asleep in the overstuffed leather chair in the second-story reading room, Theo’s first and second and third emotions involved annoyance, rapidly followed by irritation, followed by disapproval.

  The man shouldn’t even be present. The library had closed for the evening, all scholars and students dispersed to nighttime studies or revelry.

  The man also did not look as if he belonged at the College. His boots were good quality but extraordinarily muddy, he was unshaven, his cravat did not bear speaking of, and his hair stood up precisely like a hedgehog’s might, if that hedgehog possessed soft-looking auburn spikes and an open-mouthed quiet snore. He had lovely cheekbones, though his face appeared rather too thin, as indeed did the rest of him; he had long red eyelashes and an impressive extension of legs as they sprawled outward.

  Theo, being short and inclined toward softness—a fact which he battled with lengthy walks and strict self-denial regarding buttered crumpets—had always appreciated tall and elegant men. Delicious, like the crumpets. Splendid for the occasional indulgence.

  This particular man, however, was presently an entire country’s worth of far from elegant. With the looseness of his coat, the stubble on his face, he might’ve wandered in from a pub or off a sailing ship or out of any number of other disreputable places. And had been exhausted enough to fall asleep midway through—Theo checked the title, visible on the man’s lap—Johnson’s Complete History of English Magic, Volume One. Well, Johnson’s dryness was quite boring enough to send anyone off for a nap, Theo considered.

  He had the fleeting impulse to go over and adjust the man’s head. That tipped-over position couldn’t be convenient for rest.

  He wondered why he’d wondered about the softness of the man’s hair.

  He regarded the man. He contemplated options.

  He’d meant to do a final check of the library and return to his own rooms, a small but functional tower suite on the College grounds. He’d planned to toast some cheese for supper, and to read the most recent Miranda Carness historical novel—not at all magical, but entirely brand-new; it’d only just come out—and to go to bed at a sensible hour.

  He had not anticipated a lounging dead-to-the-world gentleman, if that was the word, in his library chair. The reading room was not a place for making one’s bed.

  Theo said as much aloud. The man did not stir.

  Theo sighed, went over, and put out a hand to shake him into wakefulness. Up close the man was even thinner, not precisely visibly ill but not precisely healthy either, as if worn to the bone. A stain marred the sleeve of his jacket with—Good Lord, was that blood? Theo stared very hard at it. Dried, at least, if an unnerving hue.

  He touched the man’s shoulder, exceedingly gently. And the room erupted in white light.

  Theo, blinded, stumbled back a step and blinked dazzled eyes. A voice said, “Oh, damn—drat, I mean—my apologies, I didn’t—” and a hand caught his elbow. “It’ll fade. I’m sorry about that.”

  The voice sounded gentlemanly and polished but unutterably weary, flattened under some boulder-sized weight. The hand was quick and apologetic but also tentative, touching Theo’s arm and lifting away.

  Theo blinked again. Murmured a mental word or two, channeled a bit of magical energy into clearing up his sight. Focused.

  “I’m very sorry,” said the gentleman, and he did sound as if he were genuinely contrite. “It’s just I’ve been—I don’t react well to being startled, you see, and—and reflexes, well. They exist. But I did pull it back as much as I could.” His eyes were the sort of blue that was nearly grey, the pale smoky hue of a London sky caught just before rain.

  “Er,” Theo said, distracted by fascinating watered-silk color, “thank you, then, and perhaps I shouldn’t’ve startled you. But, you see, you were sleeping in my library.”

  The man’s eyebrows shot up. “You
r library.”

  “The College’s library. But I’m the head librarian here. And you’re clearly a magician, though I don’t know you. What did you say your name was?”

  “Most people,” said the gentleman, with a hint of something like admiration, “would be much more distraught at temporary blindness. I thought Sir Roderick was the head librarian.”

  “Sir Roderick passed away last year. Peacefully, as far as I know, though all fifteen of his grandchildren are currently arguing over the terms of his estate. I wanted the position. You haven’t answered my question.”

  “To be fair,” countered the gentleman, “you haven’t introduced yourself either. I shall be polite and set an example.”

  “An example—”

  “Captain Henry Tourmaline, lately of His Majesty’s Army and the Magicians’ Corps in particular, former aide de camp to the Duke of Wellington, Royal College of Wizardry graduate, and decidedly not the possessor of any overdue volumes.” He even said this with a smile, albeit a very tired one. Henry Tourmaline, Theo decided, must have once known how to be charming; the smile no doubt worked wonders on susceptible ladies and gentlemen.

  To his further annoyance, it seemed to be working on him as well, or at least that had to be the explanation for his sudden desire to take Captain Tourmaline back to his own rooms and feed the man toasted cheese until some of the dreadful thinness went away.

  Theo firmly squashed that thought under a mental mountain of unshelved books, and retorted, “Theodore Burnett, College librarian. Now that we’ve established our mutual understanding of social niceties, could you find someplace to sleep that isn’t my library?”

  Perhaps he ought to be nicer. The man had fought against Napoleon, after all. And Theo, like most of the remaining magicians in England, knew what’d happened to the Magicians’ Corps, and how awful that’d been. Sympathy was likely in order.

  Though—Theo eyed the horror of those muddy boots—Captain Tourmaline, from the state of him, might’ve come straight from an army camp, after the recent conclusion of the war effort.

  And had also noticed the direction of Theo’s glare, and held up a hand. “Ah. Apologies again. Let me see…” Mud scooped itself into a small shamefaced pile on the plush woven carpet. “Er…”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Theo said, and flicked fingers at the dirt; it picked itself up and flew out the window, which he closed again after. “Are you simply determined to cause me more difficulties, or—are you quite all right?”

  Captain Tourmaline waved a hand, which did nothing to mitigate the fact that he’d sat down again and was looking rather pale, with small lines around those beautiful smoky eyes. He really would be distressingly attractive if not so thin, Theo thought, and then hastily scolded himself for the thought.

  He came over, and carefully did not touch—as it hadn’t worked out terribly well before—but perched on the weathered old table beside the chair. “Can I assist you?”

  Captain Tourmaline cocked an eyebrow at him. “Thought you didn’t like me.” He also put up a hand and rubbed at the spot between his eyebrows, as if trying to banish a bone-deep ache.

  “I said nothing of the sort,” Theo told him. “I merely wished you to cease using my library as a bedroom. I find that some willow and mint tea and a brief soothing spell can help, when my head aches. I could offer any of those, if you’d like.”

  “To get me out of here faster?”

  “Perhaps inadvertently, but I truly did mean the offer. Besides, left to your own devices you might cover all of Johnson’s Complete History in mud.”

  “And I should hate,” Captain Tourmaline said, amused, ironic, oddly good-humored, “to cause more work for you. I simply needed…I don’t suppose you know of any place quiet and, er, discreet about magical messes. A boarding house, or one of the College’s guest rooms—do those still exist?—or anyplace nearby.”

  His eyes were tired, and his shoulders were tired, and his long legs slumped against the chair as if afraid they’d be asked to work soon; drained, Theo thought. That was the word. Harrowed, and stretched nearly to pieces, and drained.

  Captain Tourmaline might be an unshaven tracker of mud and messy spellwork, but the man clearly needed food and rest, and comfort, and quiet. A common inn or boarding-house would be noisy, and people might ask questions of a recently-returned magician, wanting news or advice; the College’s guest rooms might be available, but faced the College green, and rowdy students had been known to set off firework-spells late at night. Hardly a tolerable option.

  Theo looked at Captain Henry Tourmaline: boots and hedgehog hair and storm-horizon eyes and exhaustion. He thought about the touch of a protective hand on his own elbow, and the way Captain Tourmaline’s first instinct had been to try to pull back his own reflexive spellwork, to catch Theo, to apologize.

  He made a decision. “The College does still have guest rooms—you haven’t been away that long, surely; that hasn’t changed much—but given the hour and the presence of students out on the lawn…perhaps, if you have no other place to stay…perhaps you ought to come home with me? For the night,” he clarified hastily, “and I’ll sleep on my sofa, and I’m certain you’ll sort things out in the morning.”

  Captain Tourmaline stared at him. Lips parted, but no word emerged.

  “Well,” Theo said, and crossed both arms, “I didn’t think it was a terrible suggestion. For one thing, I’ve got mint for that tea.”

  “I’m sorry,” Captain Tourmaline said. He was now looking at Theo with an expression something akin to wonder, as if he’d also been surprised. “I hadn’t thought—I didn’t expect you to—I’m afraid I’m not used to, er, being offered someone’s bed. And I really did think you didn’t like me.”

  “I tend to dislike people who get mud on my books,” Theo said. “It’s hardly personal. Is that a yes, then?”

  Chapter 2

  Captain Henry Tourmaline, caught in the warmth of green eyes and the surprising offer of kindness, swallowed roughly and tried not to melt. A task he found more difficult than it should’ve been. Theodore Burnett had beautiful eyes. They were the kind of green that only came when summer advanced, and they reminded Henry of home. This made it much harder not to lose himself in them. Henry missed home. So much.

  But he couldn’t go back. Not yet. There were things he needed to do, and if he didn’t get them taken care of, he’d only make his family worry. Well, make them worry more.

  He hadn’t been home for too many years now, and no matter how badly he wished to be in his mother’s embrace and hear his father’s kind reassuring voice and listen to all the news he’d missed with his brothers and sisters, Henry refused to cause them more pain. It’d been hard enough promising that he’d be just fine when he’d received his orders and had to say goodbye.

  That promise, made with the best of intentions, had been harder to keep than Henry had realized. Strictly speaking, in the most basic definition of the word, he hadn’t broken it. He’d escaped the war with his life and, for three years, seven months, and nine days, had received only minor injuries. Cuts and bruises, mostly. A broken ankle that’d been easily mended by the field physician, magically trained, in the medical tent.

  What he hadn’t expected, three years, seven months, and ten days after he made his promise…

  That spell. That injury. Like nothing he’d ever known, or felt, or ever read about.

  It screamed inside his veins. In his gut, in his soul. In the place where his magic lived, or used to live, because it didn’t. Not anymore.

  The assignment had been routine. One he’d carried out successfully many times already. In and out. Information. Troop movements, the French sorcerers’ lines and strategies. Pillow talk, if that came to pass; idle chatter while drinking, if the man hadn’t been inclined to anything more. All Henry’d had to do—in theory—was follow a French officer into the brothel and sidle up.

  And it would’ve been easy. It should’ve been easy.

 
There’d been a drink, and a smile, and a room upstairs, and then—

  He should’ve known better. Paid attention to all the signs. Figured out that he’d walked right into a trap. If he had, then maybe…maybe he’d be…his magic would…

  He wasn’t thinking about that. Not now.

  He was, of course. He couldn’t not think of it. Anguish laced his bones, his lungs, each breath, as if every exhale tore him apart just a fraction more. But he could stand, and walk, and speak.

  It was a slow sort of death, which he thought might be the cruelest. But it did give him time.

  He had written to his family since his return to England, assuring them that he simply needed to stay in London for a while because his presence was still required. It wasn’t a lie, exactly. Henry did need to meet with the Secretary of War about his last mission. He did need to go to the Home Office for debriefing. He did need to be seen by a physician. More than one, and all spectacularly unhelpful, though he’d not told his family that. He’d not told them he’d been wounded, at least not more than a little minor hex.

  All of those were errands he’d taken care of during his first few days in London, but he had other matters to take care of as well.

  Specifically, the reason why he’d come to the library at the Royal College of Wizardry. He’d not been here in years—he’d been a good but not bookish student, naturally gifted—but if anyplace held an answer, the College’s collection would. The history of English magic—and, to some extent, the world’s magic; the library collected broadly—lived in those shelves and archives, expansive, detailed, wide-ranging.

  He had not spoken to a librarian, though he’d smiled at the tall young woman attending the front desk when he’d arrived. The College did ask that visitors register, to keep track of who might be using England’s largest repository of magical volumes, but they’d also always prided themselves on making knowledge accessible and public, if visitors desired to drop in. Henry had indeed desired.

  He’d wanted, perhaps naively, to solve this himself.