The Invitation.

When I told the others of the need to go back to the market one more time they took it as a given. They had not given up on the idea of finding anything of use from the once-magicians there, and had no doubt that the invite to look beneath the market would be the start of a series of revelations. Even Samuel, who sticks to his belief that magic has gone forever, wants answers to the why and the wherefore.

I also complained that my trainers were now double ruined, after a second trek over the moor, and Angela said I could get that sorted at the market too. I didn’t know what she meant, because what she meant was to buy new trainers at the market and the idea was so ridiculous it couldn’t take shape in my head.
“Why not?” She asked.
“Because my name’s not Kyle and I don’t wear sovereigns.”
“But you do need trainers.”
“I’ll go to Meadowhall.” I said, and tried to leave the room.
“You think the market’s beneath you?”
“The market is beneath me. The only thing not beneath me in that market is what’s beneath the market.”
This took her second to follow:- “You’re a snob.” She said. “And you don’t have enough money for that privilege.”
“I prefer to think of it as having higher standards.”
“I’m sure you do. And that would be fair enough if you set your own standards.”

At the market on Monday I found Arthur Enright at one of the cafés near his stall, making slow work of a cooked breakfast. I’d gone to the stall first and one of the other magicians escorted me to him, and then withdrew, like he was their bishop or godfather. He was quick to dispel the idea of me seeing the castle foundations – as he could not get full consensus from his associates. What he wanted to invite me to was a gathering, at his house, on Friday night.
“There is nothing much left to see here.” He assured me. “What there was is now in our possession. The stall will close at the end of today, and really only lasted so long because it gave the others somewhere to meet, but now they have the theatre bar, which suits them better.”

I phoned David Challoner in the evening. Why none of these people have mobile phones I don’t know, but maybe the 21st Century will find them now that they can talk via crystal balls or whatever they did. Challoner thanked me for calling him, and said that he would have his file on Ilford Dyson soon – his colleague had posted it to the hotel, but not first class. He would have it by Friday though, and proposed that we meet at Enright’s. I asked if he knew what the gathering was all about, and he said he didn’t. I asked if he’d actually been invited to the gathering, and he said he hadn’t.
“So how will I meet you there?”
“Ask Arthur Enright if I can be your guest.”
“You ask him.”
“He wouldn’t even take a call from the likes of me.”
“You’ve said stuff like that before,” I said. “What type of magic did you used to do?”
“I’ve never practiced magic. I’m the lowest of the low, in their eyes.”
“You’re a muggle?”
“I don’t know what that means I’m afraid. I’m what’s called a magical theorist. I study magic, in its causes and effects. It’s fascinating really, or rather it was, but I’m afraid it lacks respect from those who cast spells. They don’t see any other course open than their distortions of the created world. And the irony is, that now it’s all gone, I’m one of the few people who can help them.”
“And you’ll give me the file on Friday?”
“Everything I know.” He promised me. Which means tomorrow I’ll ring Enright.