to its feet, and led it out down echoing corridors to his waiting car.
On the journey back to Highgate, the magician once or twice tried to engage the
child in conversation, but was met with teary silence. This did not please him; with a snort of frustration, he gave up and turned on the radio to catch the cricket scores. The child sat stock-still in the backseat, gazing at its knees.
His wife met them at the door. She carried a tray of biscuits and a steaming mug
of hot chocolate, and straight away bustled the boy into a cozy sitting room, where a fire leaped in the grate.
"You won't get any sense out of him, Martha," Mr. Underwood grunted. "Hasn't said a word."
"Do you wonder? He's terrified, poor thing. Leave him to me." Mrs. Underwood was a diminutive, roundish woman with very white hair cropped short. She sat the boy in a chair by the fire and offered him a biscuit. He didn't acknowledge her at all.
Half an hour passed. Mrs. Underwood chatted pleasantly about anything that
came into her head. The boy drank some chocolate and nibbled a biscuit, but otherwise
stared silently into the fire.
Finally, Mrs. Underwood made a decision. She sat beside him and put her arm
around his shoulders.
"Now, dear," she said, "let's make a deal. I know that you've been told not to tell anyone your name, but you can make an exception with me. I can't get to know you
properly just calling you 'boy,'
can I? So, if you tell me your name, I'll tell you mine—in strictest confidence.
What do you think?
Was that a nod? Very well, then. I'm Martha. And you are...?"
A small snuffle, a smaller voice. "Nathaniel."
"That's a lovely name, dear, and don't worry, I won't tell a soul. Don't you feel better already?
Now, have another biscuit, Nathaniel, and I'll show you to your bedroom."
With the child fed and bathed and finally put to bed, Mrs. Underwood reported
back to her husband, who was working in his study.
"He's asleep at last," she said. "It wouldn't surprise me if he was in shock—and no wonder, his parents leaving him like that. I think it's disgraceful, ripping a child from his home so young."
"That's how it's always been done, Martha. Apprentices have to come from
somewhere." The magician kept his head bent meaningfully toward his book.
His wife did not take the hint. "He should be allowed to stay with his family," she went on. "Or at least to see them sometimes."
Wearily, Mr. Underwood placed the book on the table. "You know very well that
is quite impossible. His birth name must be forgotten, or else future enemies will use it to harm him. How can it be forgotten if his family keeps in contact? Besides, no one has
forced his parents to part with their brat. They didn't want him, that's the truth of it, Martha, or they wouldn't have answered the advertisements. It's quite straightforward.
They get a considerable amount of money as compensation, he gets a chance to serve his country at the highest level, and the state gets a new apprentice. Simple.
Everyone wins. No one loses out."
"All the same..."
"It didn't do me any harm, Martha." Mr. Underwood reached for his book.
"It would be a lot less cruel if magicians were allowed their own children."
"That road leads to competing dynasties, family alliances... it all ends in blood feuds. Read your history books, Martha: see what happened in Italy. So, don't worry
about the boy. He's young. He'll forget soon enough. Now, what about making me some
supper?"
The magician Underwood's house was the kind of building that presented a
slender, simple, dignified countenance to the street, but which extended back for a
remarkable distance in a confusion of stairs, corridors, and slightly varying levels. There were five main floors altogether: a cellar, filled with wine racks, mushroom boxes, and cases of drying fruit; the ground floor, containing reception room, dining hall, kitchen, and conservatory; two upper floors mainly consisting of
On the journey back to Highgate, the magician once or twice tried to engage the
child in conversation, but was met with teary silence. This did not please him; with a snort of frustration, he gave up and turned on the radio to catch the cricket scores. The child sat stock-still in the backseat, gazing at its knees.
His wife met them at the door. She carried a tray of biscuits and a steaming mug
of hot chocolate, and straight away bustled the boy into a cozy sitting room, where a fire leaped in the grate.
"You won't get any sense out of him, Martha," Mr. Underwood grunted. "Hasn't said a word."
"Do you wonder? He's terrified, poor thing. Leave him to me." Mrs. Underwood was a diminutive, roundish woman with very white hair cropped short. She sat the boy in a chair by the fire and offered him a biscuit. He didn't acknowledge her at all.
Half an hour passed. Mrs. Underwood chatted pleasantly about anything that
came into her head. The boy drank some chocolate and nibbled a biscuit, but otherwise
stared silently into the fire.
Finally, Mrs. Underwood made a decision. She sat beside him and put her arm
around his shoulders.
"Now, dear," she said, "let's make a deal. I know that you've been told not to tell anyone your name, but you can make an exception with me. I can't get to know you
properly just calling you 'boy,'
can I? So, if you tell me your name, I'll tell you mine—in strictest confidence.
What do you think?
Was that a nod? Very well, then. I'm Martha. And you are...?"
A small snuffle, a smaller voice. "Nathaniel."
"That's a lovely name, dear, and don't worry, I won't tell a soul. Don't you feel better already?
Now, have another biscuit, Nathaniel, and I'll show you to your bedroom."
With the child fed and bathed and finally put to bed, Mrs. Underwood reported
back to her husband, who was working in his study.
"He's asleep at last," she said. "It wouldn't surprise me if he was in shock—and no wonder, his parents leaving him like that. I think it's disgraceful, ripping a child from his home so young."
"That's how it's always been done, Martha. Apprentices have to come from
somewhere." The magician kept his head bent meaningfully toward his book.
His wife did not take the hint. "He should be allowed to stay with his family," she went on. "Or at least to see them sometimes."
Wearily, Mr. Underwood placed the book on the table. "You know very well that
is quite impossible. His birth name must be forgotten, or else future enemies will use it to harm him. How can it be forgotten if his family keeps in contact? Besides, no one has
forced his parents to part with their brat. They didn't want him, that's the truth of it, Martha, or they wouldn't have answered the advertisements. It's quite straightforward.
They get a considerable amount of money as compensation, he gets a chance to serve his country at the highest level, and the state gets a new apprentice. Simple.
Everyone wins. No one loses out."
"All the same..."
"It didn't do me any harm, Martha." Mr. Underwood reached for his book.
"It would be a lot less cruel if magicians were allowed their own children."
"That road leads to competing dynasties, family alliances... it all ends in blood feuds. Read your history books, Martha: see what happened in Italy. So, don't worry
about the boy. He's young. He'll forget soon enough. Now, what about making me some
supper?"
The magician Underwood's house was the kind of building that presented a
slender, simple, dignified countenance to the street, but which extended back for a
remarkable distance in a confusion of stairs, corridors, and slightly varying levels. There were five main floors altogether: a cellar, filled with wine racks, mushroom boxes, and cases of drying fruit; the ground floor, containing reception room, dining hall, kitchen, and conservatory; two upper floors mainly consisting of
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