Wizard Undercover

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“I’m sorry?” Gerald said, staring at Mitzie. Thank Saint Snodgrass they were ensconced more-or-less behind the potted tree fern, and that the Servants’ Ball was in full, uproarious swing. “You went looking for-ah-Ferdie in the Grande Splotze morgue?”

Mitzie nodded vigorously. “Yes, sir. After I couldn’t find him in the hospitals. But he wadn’t with the dead people, neither. I looked at all of them.” She shuddered. “Even when they were old and horrible, or all runny, I looked. But Ferdie wadn’t there. Oh, Mister Rowbotham! Something dreadful must’ve happened to him!”

“You looked at runny dead bodies,” said Gerald, not risking a glance at Bibbie. “Gracious. That was very brave of you, Mitzie.”

Fresh tears welled in her eyes. “Thank you, Mister Rowbotham.”

“Although I’m a bit surprised Cook didn’t offer to do it for you.”

“Cook? Pah!” Mitzie blinked away the tears. “All he does is call my Ferdie nasty names and throw bowls at the wall because he don’t have his senior pantry-man and he says his back’s too bad for lifting.”

“And what about Mister Ibblie? You can’t ask for his help?”

Mitzie shrank. “Oh, no, Mister Rowbotham, sir. Mister Ibblie, he don’t speak to kitchen maids. And even if he did, sir, Ferdie idn’t meant to be any of my business. Besides, there’d be no help dere. Mister Ibblie told Cook he caught Ferdie out of bounds and Ferdie must’ve bolted on account of fearing he’d be punished and if he shows his face again he’ll only be turned off so dere’s no point in trying to find him.” She hiccupped. “And Cook said Mister Ibblie had no right to chase away his pantry-man, kitchen staff are his say-so, and then Mister Ibblie told Cook it was his own fault for not keeping a stricter eye on us and after that neither of them had a care for Ferdie no more. It was just about them.”

Well, damn. If only that didn’t sound entirely bloody plausible. “There, there,” said Gerald, and fished a handkerchief out of his pocket.

Mitzie took it with a watery smile and mopped her wet cheeks. “Dere weren’t no-one I could speak to. Only I feel like I’m letting Ferdie down, sir, holding my tongue when I know something’s wrong.”

“Oh, Mitzie, you’ve not let him down,” Bibbie said quickly, and slid her arm around the despondent kitchen maid’s shoulders. “You braved the Grande Splotze morgue! If that’s not friendship, I don’t know what is.”

Mitzie’s cheeks pinked, and her eyelashes fluttered low to shield her eyes. “Oh, miss. You’d do the same, for Ferdie. He’s got such a way with him, he has.”

Gerald stifled a groan. It seemed more than likely that Bestwick’s little ways were set to end his career.

Provided, of course, he’s not lying dead in a ditch.

Trying to ignore the dread that thought woke, and the guilt of his own failure, he gave the kitchen maid an encouraging smile. “Yes, I’m sure you’re right, Mitzie. Now, I wonder, d’you think we could go back over a few things? Just to make sure I have the story straight? You said the last time you saw Ferdie was in the stables. You’re quite certain of that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And it was two days ago?”

“Two days afore yesterday, sir. Late lunchish time.”

So, definitely the same day Bestwick sent Sir Alec his desperate message. The same day, it seemed, that Ibblie had seen him. “And what exactly were you doing with Ferdie in the stables? I don’t think you said.”

“Doing, sir?” said Mitzie, her voice strangled. Her blush this time was rosy red.

Belatedly, he realised. Oh. Right. Opposite him, Bibbie was working hard to keep her expression serious. Wretched girl. She was s’posed to be gently-bred. She was s’posed to be mortified. Instead she looked like she wanted to break into whoops.

“Yes, well, never mind, Mitzie,” he muttered. “I’m sure what you do with your friends is none of my affair. I mean business. Just, if you could think back and tell me who else was in the stables with you?”

Mitzie looked puzzled. “Oh, sir, there wadn’t nobody else. All alone, we were. We had to be.” Another blush. “You know.”

“Yes, yes, quite,” he said hurriedly. “I see. Ah-does that mean you didn’t see Mister Ibblie?”

She shook her head. “No, I never saw him, sir. I left first, y’see. So’s we’d not set tongues wagging.”

“And you’re quite sure nobody’s laid eyes on Ferdie since then?”

“Yes, sir,” said Mitzie. “Everybody’s been asked, sir. And there’d be no call to fib on it.”

Not if there was nothing to hide, no. But clearly somebody was concealing the truth, because in the short space of time between Mitzie leaving the stables and Ibblie discovering Bestwick there, something had happened to alarm the agent about the wedding.

Unless Ibblie’s the culprit, Gerald realised. In which case he and I need to have another pointed conversation. In private, this time.

Damp handkerchief strangled in her fingers, Mitzie turned to Bibbie. “Oh, miss, please, you have to believe me. Ferdie didn’t run away. He told me how much he loves working in the kitchen and how one day he’d like to be a ’prentice cook, and I believed him. He was pantry-man here four years, y’know, and there’s not a man alive stays slaving in the pantry with the likes of Cook if it’s not work he’s born to do! And-and he asked me to dance with him tonight, afore everyone to see us, he did. That idn’t a thing a man asks if he don’t have a true care for a girl.”

Gerald met Bibbie’s concerned gaze over the maid’s bowed head. “I’m sure you’re right, Mitzie,” he said, carefully gentle. “So here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to tell Her Royal Highness, Princess Melissande, all about Ferdie. And then she’ll ask Crown Prince Hartwig to look into his disappearance.”

Mitzie looked up. “Really, sir?” she said, doubtful.

“Really. Princess Melissande has strong views about the way people should be treated. She doesn’t give a fig if you’re a servant or a prince. Isn’t that right, Miss Slack?”

“Quite right, Mister Rowbotham,” Bibbie said promptly.

“But, sir… the Crown Prince?”

“Oh, yes,” said Gerald, firmly squashing his scruples. “Princess Melissande and the Crown Prince are excellent friends.”

“Oh, sir!” Mitzie blinked, awestruck. “Thank you!”

Skewered with fresh guilt, Gerald patted her hand. “You’re welcome.”

“So now you can enjoy the evening, can’t you?” said Bibbie. “Instead of sitting all by yourself in a corner, feeling weepy.”

“Yes, miss, thank you, miss,” said Mitzie. “Only I can’t really, miss, because I’m only allowed an hour upstairs before I have to get back in the kitchens so’s Effie can take her turn kicking up her heels. So I’d best go.” She held out the damp handkerchief. “But thank you.”

Reluctant, Gerald accepted the tearstained square of cotton then watched the kitchen maid out of sight.

“Poor little blot,” said Bibbie.

He frowned at her. “Well? What d’you think?”

“I think,” she said, sighing, “that it’s going to be nearly impossible to find out what Ibblie knows, especially if he’s mixed up in this. Which is starting to look likely. If he was in the stables plotting, and you-know-who overhead him then got discovered, well, of course you-know-who would run away, wouldn’t he? And of course Ibblie wouldn’t lift a finger to find him. The question is would he lift a finger to stab him? Because somebody pushed a knife into you-know-who. But I don’t suppose we’ll be able to find out who did it.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to confess. Confide. Tell Bibbie everything about the entrapment hex, the grimoire magic, why she’d felt what she’d felt when he’d questioned Ibblie earlier. He’d not feel so terribly alone if she knew.

But I can’t tell her. Not yet. Not until I know what it means.

Not until he could be sure she wouldn’t turn away from him in horror.

She was looking at him, one eyebrow quizzically raised. “Mister Rowbotham?”

He forced a smile. “That was good work, Miss Slack, noticing Mitzie was upset about something.”

“Yes, well.” Bibbie rolled her eyes. “The waterfall of tears down her face was what you might call a hint.”

“Don’t dismiss it so lightly,” he said. “My point is, thanks to you we’ve found our first suspect.”

“And much good he does us,” Bibbie muttered. “When he’s untouchable, at least by a lady’s maid and secretary.”

“We can still try,” he said. “And if it doesn’t work, we can get Melissande to question him. But let’s not forget, he’s only a suspect. Ibblie could be completely innocent.”

She snorted. “Nobody’s completely innocent.”

“So young and yet so cynical,” he marvelled.

“You would be too if you’d grown up in my family. And besides, I’m not that young.” Bibbie smiled, her eyes wicked. “I’ll be my own woman soon.”

“At which time the world will tremble,” he said. And then, because her smile was doing dangerous things to his blood, he looked around in search of Mister Ibblie.

Most of the food had been consumed, and the Splotze servants who weren’t condemned to tidying up, and the guest minions from Graff and Blonkken and Aframbigi and Fandawandi and Borovnik and Harenstein and elsewhere, were nibbling the leftovers or dancing or gossiping. But where the devil was Ibblie? Had he left the Servants’ Hall? Because if he’d slipped away, then But no. There he was, deep in conversation with the lackeys from Harenstein. Gerald stared.

Is it him? Is he the one?

Ibblie was certainly senior enough, and trusted enough, to be involved in a plot without suspicion. Was he to be included on the wedding tour? That was something to find out. If he wasn’t, then any move he made would need to be either before the wedding party departed Grande Splotze, or after it returned.

And we’re leaving Grande Splotze the day after tomorrow. So that doesn’t leave him much time, does it, if he wants to get his sabotage over and done with?

His nerves, which had been sleeping, leapt to fizzing life. Tonight? If the culprit was Ibblie, would he try something tonight? Surely the timing was perfect. Why would anyone suspect him when he was stuck downstairs presiding over the Servants’ Ball?

Bibbie plucked at his coat sleeve. “What’s the matter?”

“We should circulate,” he said. “We’re not going to learn anything more keeping this tree fern company.”

“That’s true,” she agreed. “I know. Why don’t I tackle Mister Ibblie?”

What? Let Bibbie confront a potential murderer? I don’t think so. “No. If Sir Alec finds out you’re-”

“Oh, pishwash to Sir Alec,” she said, with an airy wave of her hand. “How’s he going to find out? We’re not going to tell him, are we? Besides, Gerald, what’s your plan for tackling Ibblie? Are you going to march up to him and say Excuse me, Mister Ibblie, I was wondering if you had any plans to scupper the royal wedding? Oh, yes, and how are you with a knife? If he’s guilty he’ll lie, and if he isn’t he’ll think you’re a madman and have you thrown out.”

She was right, curse her. Especially since he couldn’t use his newfound compulsion power on the bloody man, not with her watching.

“And I suppose you think you can flirt the answer out of him?”

Bibbie batted her eyelashes. “Why, Mister Rowbotham. If I didn’t know better, I might think you were jealous.”

She was saved from a shaking by the motley musicians, who launched into a sprightly jig.

“I know!” said Bibbie, with the brightness he’d long ago learned to distrust. “I’ll ask Mister Ibblie to dance! He won’t say no, it’d be rude to refuse Princess Melissande’s lady’s maid, and while we’re prancing about I’ll tell him I found Mitzie crying, and that she told me about you-know-who, and then we’ll see what he says about the last time he saw Ferdie Goosen.”

Gerald swallowed. He wished he could forbid it, but since he couldn’t risk lowering his shield she was their best chance of getting some answers. One melting look and Ibblie would surely be butter in her hands.

“All right,” he said, resigned. “You do that, and I’ll have a chat with some of the chaps from Borovnik. Only please, Miss Slack, be careful. This isn’t a game. If Ibblie’s our man that means he’s dangerous.”

“Double pishwash,” said Bibbie, loftily. “How many times do I have to tell you? Stop treating me like a gel!”

If he said what he wanted to say they’d get into a shouting match, so he restrained himself. The effort nearly gave him a hernia.

“Fine,” he said, teeth gritted. “Off you go, then. And make sure you dance him past me a few times. I got a good whiff of those dark thaumaturgics in you-know-who’s lodging, and if I go looking I might smell them on him.”

Bibbie flashed him a Gladys Slack smile that was almost as dazzling as her own. “Yes, Mister Rowbotham. Whatever you say, Mister Rowbotham.”

Hell’s bells, he groaned silently, as she headed for Ibblie. That girl will be the death of me yet.

Leopold Gertz was a damp little squib of a man. Which was odd, really, considering he was Splotze’s Secretary of State. Surely Hartwig could’ve found someone with more personality for the job?

Honestly, Melissande thought, trying not to listen as he slurped his cream of artichoke heart soup. I can’t believe Hartwig couldn’t have found me someone less dreadful to sit with!

She’d been placed at the far end of the Great Table, with Leopold Gertz ensconced damply at her right hand, and because they were all seated side by side in one long row, there wasn’t anyone to talk to across the table… even if she’d been prepared to commit such a breach of good manners.

Seated with them on the overly decorated dais, displayed like shop window dummies to the whole sumptuous State Dining Room, were Hartwig, Dowager Queen Erminium, Ratafia and Ludwig, of course, the Marquis of Harenstein and his child-bride Marquise, who looked any minute as though she were about to start sucking her thumb-or possibly fall asleep face-first in her soup-and all three Lanruvians. In typical Lanruvian fashion they managed somehow to sit apart, even when neatly sandwiched between Erminium and the marquis.

Curse it. If only Hartwig had sat me next to them. At the rate I’m going I won’t get to say so much as boo to the buggers.

Interestingly, the various dignitaries from Graff, Blonkken, Aframbigi, Ottosland, Fandawandi and Jandria had been relegated to the dining room’s second-best tables. From the look on the Ottish Foreign Minister’s face-what was his name, again? Boggis? Beaver? Something starting with B. Battleaxe, it should be, the glares he was giving Hartwig-it was clearly counted an insult to Ottosland that he wasn’t up there with them on display. And why wasn’t he? she wondered. Was Hartwig punishing the great nation for messing him about?

It wouldn’t surprise me. Hartwig can be a bit prickly, and Ottosland never seems to notice when it’s giving offence.

Remembering the Wycliffe affair, Melissande pretended to enjoy her own soup-lord, she loathed artichokes, she’d almost prefer the tadpole eyes on toothpicks-while surreptitiously observing the Jandrian Minister of Foreign Affairs and his wife. Were they behind the attack on Abel Bestwick and the planned disruption of the wedding? Oh, surely not. Surely they weren’t stupid enough to try more shenanigans after their still-recent close shave with international industrial espionage.

I mean, not even the Jandrians are that arrogant… are they?

She didn’t know. Bibbie, being a Markham, might have an idea. One of the Markhams must. Sir Ralph. Possibly Monk. It was something to remind Gerald about, anyway, so he could discuss it with Sir Alec. Though doubtless Sir Alec was already taking a closer look at their old foe.

The rest of the noise in the dining room belonged to the bevy of other invited guests, captains of Western Continent industry, social and cultural luminaries and the like, who laughed and gossiped and clattered cutlery, gold and silver and jewels glittering in the luminous chandelier light. And of course the musicians, who were soaking the rarefied air with a selection of classical Borovnik music.

Melissande looked down at her soup bowl. Not even half emptied, which could easily be taken as an ill-mannered insult to her hosts. Her stomach growled a warning complaint. She really did not like heart of artichoke. As her stomach complained again she gave up, and pushed the bowl to one side.

Beside her, his own bowl scraped clean, Leopold Gertz dabbed napkin to lips. “Very nice, I’m sure.” He glanced sideways. “You disagree, Your Highness?”

Oh, damn. “No, no, Mister Secretary. Unfortunately I- ah-I got a bit carried away at the reception. Too many crab puffs. Did you try one? They were delightful.”

Leopold Gertz sniffed, damply. “I don’t believe in crustaceans.”

“Ah! Then that must give you something in common with our friends from Lanruvia,” she said, seizing the chance before it slithered away. “I don’t think they ate any crab puffs, either. I must say…” The rest of the table wasn’t paying attention to either of them, so she shifted a little in her seat and tried her best to capture the man’s attention. “It’s lovely to see the Lanruvians getting about, taking part in things, isn’t it? They’re so reclusive as a rule. But I have to ask, why now? Why Splotze? Why do they care about this wedding?”

Leopold Gertz’s eyes were a nondescript brown, their irises floating despondent in a bloodshot corneal sea.

“Who knows why the Lanruvians do anything, Your Highness?” he said, with a dispirited shrug of his skinny shoulders. “I did hear they were interested in using our Canal to transport goods from Harenstein to the Gardeppe Isthmus. Since the upcoming joyous event will usher in a new era of stability for the region, perhaps that’s why.”

Servants had magically appeared to remove their soup bowls. Leaning out of the way, Melissande frowned. “But you’re not sure?”

“As I say, Your Highness.” Gertz attempted a smile, and mostly failed. “Who can fathom the Lanruvian mind?”

“Well, I’d certainly like to try,” she said, with a sickeningly coy little laugh. “They’re so terribly intriguing. Whose idea was it to ask them to the wedding, d’you know? Hartwig couldn’t recall.”

“I’m afraid I can’t either, Your Highness,” said Gertz, disapprovingly repressive. “And even if I could, it wouldn’t be proper for me to tell you.”

“No, no, of course not,” she said quickly. Her stomach growled again, this time so loudly that Leopold Gertz heard it. Startled, he blinked at her. She pretended it hadn’t happened. “Mister Secretary-”

But then she forgot what she meant to say, because her stomach growled yet again then turned itself over on a surging wave of sickness. Her skin rushed hot, then cold and clammy. Dark spots danced before her eyes.

“Your Highness?” Leopold Gertz said, damply concerned. “Are you all right?”

Further down the table, Hartwig’s brother Ludwig groaned. A moment later Princess Ratafia let out a pained little gasp.

“Mama-Mama-I don’t feel very well!”

Stomach writhing, the dancing black dots duelling with scarlet blotches now, Melissande squinted around the dining room. Quite a few of the guests seemed to be in intestinal distress. Without warning, Ottosland’s Foreign Minister bent double, half-slid from his chair, and began to heave up his artichoke soup… along with everything else he’d eaten so far.

Horrified cries. The scraping of chair legs on the polished marble floor. And then the ghastly, ominous sounds of more people succumbing.

But succumbing to what? Poison? Was this the dreadful plan? Wipe out the entire wedding party and a great many other important people for good measure? Hand pressed to her spasming middle, Melissande looked past Leopold Gertz to Hartwig. He was sweating profusely, and hiccupping, his eyes stretched wide in disbelief. Beside him, Ludwig was heaving like a drunken sailor. So were Princess Ratafia and her mother, the Dowager Queen. The Marquise of Harenstein was flapping her hands and squealing, revolted and hiccupping, as the marquis tried to pull her away from the mess. The musicians had stopped playing, appalled, and the servants were staring, abandoning the idea of serving the next course. And the Lanruvians… the Lanruvians…

Had extricated themselves from the carnage and were watching from a safe distance, unmoved.

Teeth clenched tight, Melissande battled the inevitable for as long as she could. But her offended insides were adamant. What had gone down just had to come up.

“Bugger it,” she said, helpless… and started to retch.

Not surprisingly, Ibblie had succumbed to Gladys Slack’s charms and was now partnering her in an energetic Splotze folk dance that involved a great deal of hand-clapping, heel-clicking, head-tossing and sultry meeting of eyes. The empty square within the border of tables was crammed full of palace lackeys and quite a few of the visiting minions who’d been unable to resist the lure of harmless entertainment.

Standing on the sidelines, Gerald fought to keep the scowl from his face. Bloody Ibblie was enjoying himself entirely too much. He was taking advantage. Taking liberties. He was clutching Bibbie’s waist!

And for all I know, the man’s a bloody villain!

He still couldn’t say one way or the other. If he could think of a reason to send Bibbie out of the hall, he’d be able to corner Hartwig’s secretary and learn the truth. But until then he was stuck with trying to read the man from behind his damned etheretic shield. As arranged, Bibbie had danced Ibblie past him five times, and each time he’d risked bursting a blood vessel trying to examine the man for thaumaturgical taint. He’d not felt any, but that didn’t mean anything. He’d not felt that entrapment hex, either, until it was too late, and that was with his shield down.

Bibbie danced past yet again, and this time he managed to catch her eye in a warning. As the folk dance ended, and the couples broke apart, he nipped in smartish and gave Ibblie an almost friendly nod.

“Mind if I steal Miss Slack away from you, sir? Thank you!”

The band launched into a stately Ottish parade. Giggling, Bibbie set her hand primly on his shoulder and slow-marched beside him the length of the dance floor.

“Well?” she said in an undertone, mindful of the other dancers. “Anything?”

“No. You?”

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think he’s been meddling with things Uncle Frederick wouldn’t like,” she said, neatly dipping at the corner without losing her balance. “And I didn’t catch a whiff of what I felt earlier.”

He’d never danced with her before. She was as graceful as a swan. “Good.”

“No, it’s bad,” she said, as they dipped and turned again. “I’ll just have to keep trying.”

Oh, wonderful. “Did you ask him about Ferdie Goosen?”

“He didn’t bat an eyelash. And when I wondered if everyone was pleased about the wedding, he said yes.”

He gave her a look. “That was taking a risk.”

“No, it wasn’t,” she retorted. “Don’t be tedious, Algernon.”

Tedious? He was terrified. Bibbie might be a powerful witch but she was no match for whoever had set that entrapment hex, or let loose the blood magic.

What if I can’t protect her? What if she stumbles across this evil bastard by accident and I’m not there to save her? What if -

The sedate Ottish dance ended, and the musicians started up a new jig.

“I’m thirsty,” said Bibbie. “Let’s sit this one out.”

So they retreated to the drinks table, accepted a glass each of fruit punch with bits of melon floating in it, and retreated to a safely empty stretch of wall.

Bibbie twizzled her wooden stirrer idly round her glass. “Nobody’s watching. You should see if you can feel that nasty ripple in the ether.”

Gerald sipped more punch. It was far too sweet. “I can’t. I’d have to lower my shield.”

“Then lower it,” said Bibbie, shrugging. “I’ll obfuscate for you. If there is a wizard here, he’ll never know he’s not alone.”

“Miss Slack-”

She slid him a sharp, sideways look. “Why are we arguing, Algernon? You have to. You might not get another chance.”

Damn. “Look, stop bossing me,” he snapped. “He’s my Uncle Frederick, not yours, which means I’ll be the judge of what I do and when I-”

“Oh, Algernon,” said Bibbie and, turning towards him, rested her hand on his arm. Her changed eyes were warm now, with sympathy. “Don’t be a tosser. Are you afraid I’ll be upset by the changes in your potentia? I won’t. D’you think I care about… you know. Grimoire magic.” She said the words silently, trusting he’d read her lips. “I swear, I couldn’t care less. You’re a good man, Mister Rowbotham. Nothing in the world has the power to change that.”

She was wrong. He’d already changed it. In Abel Bestwick’s dismal little home he’d rewritten the rules. And without meaning to, she’d already told him it might have been his worst mistake.

Something — or someone — dangerous is in this hall right now.

He took a half-step back from her. “Bibbie-”

A commotion at the entrance to the Servants’ Hall turned them both, and then one of the upstairs lackeys, splendidly silver-trimmed, flailed his way onto the dance floor shouting for Mister Ibblie.

Everyone stopped jigging as the music abruptly died.

“Lishboi?” Ibblie demanded, pushing forward. “What’s the meaning of this?”

Lishboi was sheet white. “It’s the Crown Prince, sir! And Prince Ludwig, and the princess! It’s all of them, just about. Somebody’s poisoned the State Dinner!”

Ibblie spat out a Splotzeish curse and plunged for the door. Ice-cold, Gerald plunged after him, knowing Bibbie was close behind. Following after them came the foreign dignitaries’ servants. In a herd, they thundered up the stairs to the State Dining Room, hard on Ibblie’s heels.

The magnificent chamber looked like a battlefield. It stank like one, too. Bodies were strewn everywhere, some of the wealthiest and most important people in the civilised world draped over tables and chairs or sprawled on the marble floor, heaving and groaning and spasmodically emptying their bellies.

“Oh, Saint Snodgrass!” Bibbie gasped, hand slapping over her mouth as they staggered to a halt not far into the stinking room. “Oh, Algernon!”

Ibblie was barrelling towards Crown Prince Hartwig and Prince Ludwig, who were seated on a dais at the far end of the chamber, wracked with pain. The servants from Borovnik and Harenstein barrelled after him, shouting at the sight of the Dowager Queen and Princess Ratafia and Harenstein’s Marquise in similar distress.

“Where’s Melissande?” Bibbie demanded. “I can’t see- no, wait, there she is!”

Gerald watched as she shoved and slid and leapt her way through the press of stricken dinner guests and their various appalled lackeys to where Melissande was slumped almost under the long table at the far end of the dining room’s dais. He felt his breath catch, and throttled the terror.

Melissande’s tough. She’ll be all right. I have a job to do. She’d want me to do it.

To hell with the risk. He was one of the most powerful thaumaturgists in the world. So what if he’d been tainted with grimoire magic?

I control my potentia. It doesn’t control me.

He let his shield drop. Wrapped his mind around his changed power, willing its new darkness to sleep, and with his safely rogue thaumaturgics went in search of villainy… and possible murder.