The Magicians and Mrs. Quent Read Online Free PDF Page A

escapes a snare by gnawing off its own leg?”
    Mrs. Baydon smiled up at him. “Really, Mr. Rafferdy, surely it’s not so bad as
that.
You seem, at a glance, to possess all your limbs.”
    “Check again after my return from Asterlane,” he said, and sat down at the table.
    Mrs. Baydon fit a piece into her puzzle, and Mr. Baydon continued to be absorbed by the news in
The Comet.
Though Rafferdy seldom looked at them himself, the weekly broadsheets were immensely popular in the city. Men might be observed reading them in every tavern, coffeehouse, and private club. While those of the higher classes favored
The Comet
or
The Messenger,
simpler folk were more likely to be seen reading
The Fox
or
The Swift Arrow.
As far as Rafferdy could tell, the only difference was that in the former the king was excoriated along with the worst of the criminals, while in the latter His Majesty was lionized with them.
    Rafferdy slipped a hand inside his coat pocket, touching the letter he had received from his father earlier that day. He did so gingerly, as one might probe a recently acquired cut or bruise, desiring to gauge its severity without exciting further discomfort.
    As a habit, he kept his correspondence with Lord Rafferdy to areas of discourse well-explored by sons and fathers for generations; that is, Rafferdy wrote requesting funds, and his father wrote back with a bank note as well as stern advice concerning the business of managing one’s finances. The advice was discarded immediately, and the money not long after, in clothing shops, taverns, and gambling houses. However, Rafferdy had had a good run at dice of late and had not been compelled to write his father for many weeks. Which made Lord Rafferdy’s letter every bit as unwelcome as it was unbidden. For what reason could Rafferdy be wanted at Asterlane?
    He must have sighed without meaning to, for Mrs. Baydon looked up from her puzzle.
    “Are you very bored then, Mr. Rafferdy?”
    He leaned back in his chair. “I haven’t decided yet. I’ve heard that appearing uninterested in everything is the latest mode. Tell me, do you think I would appear more fashionable if I were bored?”
    “You always look fashionable, Mr. Rafferdy.”
    “Well, then I must be bored.”
    Mr. Baydon glanced over the edge of his broadsheet. “As well you should be, Rafferdy. Socials at Lady Marsdel’s house have all the appeal of a streetlamp at night.”
    “And how is that?”
    “They’re bound to attract every brainless, fluttery thing in the vicinity.” The broadsheet was raised again. The headline read, C ROWN R EFUSES TO F ORTIFY O UTLAND G ARRISONS .
    Mrs. Baydon fit another piece into the puzzle: a painting of a verdant garden. “That’s not true at all, Mr. Baydon. The guest list is very exclusive. Only thirty-two are invited to attend on any particular occasion. And it’s said everybody wishes to be invited to parties at Lady Marsdel’s.”
    “Which is precisely the reason why I don’t,” Rafferdy said. “If everybody wants a thing, then it’s a sure sign it’s awful.”
    “Really? Then why did you come tonight?”
    “To help you find this.” Rafferdy picked up a piece and set it into the puzzle.
    Mrs. Baydon clapped her hands, her face aglow; she was a lively young woman and always looked prettiest when animated. “I’ve been searching for that piece for the last hour. I must have stared at it a hundred times. Whatever will we do without you, Mr. Rafferdy? Lady Marsdel is right; everything will seem dreary when you’re gone. You
will
come back to us soon, won’t you?”
    “Like a moth fluttering to a streetlamp, no doubt. I hope to return before the beginning of the month.”
    Mr. Baydon emitted a grumble as he turned another page; all that could be seen of him were the furrows in his forehead and a thicket of curly brown hair.
    “Why do you read those broadsheets, Mr. Baydon?” his wife asked. “You know they always make you frown.”
    Rafferdy took the