The Wizard taps his wand against the parchment, erasing a line he had already redrawn. He frowns, and then undoes the erasure.
This is the third time he has done this.
It is not going well, this spell. The first steps were obvious, even intuitive. But now it’s not going anywhere. He has linked the four circles of the Exceptions to show their relationships and energy flow, using lines styled as grapevines. He has shown the perambulations of the cat among the circles as a trail of golden paw-prints. He has even drawn the cat herself, in Medieval style, beneath a scroll labeled Wander. He has added clever portraits of himself and the servants in their respective circles. But the drawing remains a drawing: static, anchored in the world of rocks and tables. It has not yet become the bones of a spell.
The Wizard paces around his Study, drawing violet sqiggles in the air with the tip of his wand. Some of them are quite attractive. But will they contribute to the spell? He thinks not. He gestures Delete All, and the the glowing lines vanish.
He returns to his desk, where Butler is clearing the breakfast dishes. The Wizard pours out one final cup of tea. He sips, but it is cold and disgusting. Butler departs with his tray, clanking softly.
Everything deteriorates with time. Hot tea grows cold. An appetizing breakfast turns into a collection of soiled plates and cutlery. Even the food, which was so pleasant to eat, is now in his stomach doing unmentionable things. Bound for the privy, a day from now.
It is simply not to be borne.
“Time spoils all,” the Wizard declares aloud. “Even breakfast.” He likes the sound of that, and wonders if he can use it in a spell. He sharpens a quill and pulls over his Commonplace Book to record it.
But polishing the wording of his epigram reminds him of breakfast, and thinking about breakfast reminds him of dinner. And thinking about dinner leads him to remember the dinners of his childhood, and his mother’s face as she set the steaming dishes on the table. And the young Wizard, not yet a Wizard but merely a boy, lifting the cover of a dish and inhaling its fragrant steam, eyes closed in love and blissful anticipation.
The remembered scent haunts him like a fragment of a song. The Wizard selects a square of stiff white paper, lifts his quill and writes:
A nice piece of Spring Lamb, roasted with leeks and garlic Young Pease with mint sauce Crisp fingerling Potatoes (use Butter!) A glass of goodly red Wine A dish of sweet ripe Strawberries, with clotted cream, for afters
The Wizard folds the parchment into an origami crane and sends it flapping toward the kitchen.
So dinner is settled. The Wizard notices his Commonplace Book lying open on the desk, and remembers why it is there. He records his epigram before it he forgets it in further distractions. Done! One small triumph in a frustrating morning.
But how can he re-gesture this spell? The Wizard paces around his study, then flings open the door and heads out into the palace. He moves from room to room, revisiting their memory-associations.
Here is the Grand Ballroom with its crystal chandeliers, which he created while remembering when he was presented at court, and saw the Queen Mother, frail in diamonds and black velvet, peering down at him from a balcony. Here is the passage to the Prison, which he created remembering his own unjust captivity far to the south, and his midnight escape on a stolen horse, galloping across the moonlit desert. Here is…
The Wizard turns a corner, and finds himself in the Library. He pauses beside the open stone book, whose marbled undulations now portray a stormy sea.
It is one of his greatest creations, this book. He still does not fully understand its workings or its purpose. But he loves it dearly.
He has started to read when a breeze distracts him. There should be no breezes here.
Why are the French windows open? The Wizard strides across the room to shut them, and finds himself looking into the Garden.
He rarely notices it, this Garden. He makes a point of not noticing it. He avoids looking at it, or even thinking about it, for days at a time. He tells himself it simply does not interest him.
To be honest, it fills him with horror. He hates it because it is the one part of his private world that mocks his will. The only thing he cannot control.
When he built the palace, he filled the Garden with level lawns and marble terraces to complement its architecture. There are symmetrical parterres planted with civilized flowers. There are fountains and statuary and white marble benches. There is even a hedge maze, with a restful grotto in the center.
Behind the palace, he populated the space with kitchen gardens and hen-coops, orchards and the labyrinthine Greenhouse. All exist for his personal delectation and convenience. It is a tame landscape now, his private, perfect, magic-driven world.
Except when it isn’t.
Out there on the edges, beyond the lawns and the hedges and the orchards, the Garden is still chaotic. Out there are plants he did not sow, and animals he cannot tame. The Garden refuses his authority, so now he shuts it out, ignores it.
Fears it, to be honest. Which he realizes, at some deep level.
But despite that (because of that) rejection, does this disobedient Garden need to be part of the spell that defines his domain, and might someday expand it?
And what about that fellow who tends the Garden? The one in the hat. The one he refuses to name, even in his thoughts. As if being nameless would make him go away, damn him! Does he need to be there too, along with Wander and the servants and the Exceptions?
The Wizard steps out onto the terrace. The warm morning breeze invades his nostrils, ruffles his hair and lifts the tendrils of his beard. It teases him. It mocks his powers.
It is too bright out here. The sky is cloudless. There are flowers everywhere, and they hurt his eyes.
Even here on the terrace, there is a vine he did not plant, climbing a marble pillar of the balustrade. The Wizard rips it up, roots and all, and stamps on it. But now there is a dead weed on the terrace, and that is a disorder too.
“Go away!” he shouts at the Garden. “Go away! Just let me be!”
The Wizard runs back into the Library and slams the door.
—