‘There’s no way we can eat all this,’ I said. ‘What’s she going to do with all the leftovers?’
‘I’ve learned not to ask these questions,’ said Nightingale.
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because I’m not sure I want to know the answers,’ he said.
My first proper lesson in magic took place in one of the labs at the back of the first floor. The other labs had once been used for research projects but this one was for teaching, and indeed it looked just like a school chemistry lab. There were waist-high benches with gas taps for Bunsen burners placed at regular intervals and white porcelain basins sunk into the varnished wooden tops. There was even a poster of the periodic table on the wall missing, I noticed, all the elements discovered after World War Two.
‘First we need to fill up a sink,’ said Nightingale. He selected one and turned the tap at the base of its long, swan-necked spout. There was a distant knocking sound, the black swan neck shook, gurgled and then coughed up a gout of brown water.
We both took a step backwards.
‘How long since you used this place?’ I asked.
The knocking grew louder, faster and then water poured from the spout, dirty at first but then clear. The knocking faded away. Nightingale put the plug in and let the basin fill three-quarters before closing the tap.
‘When you’re attempting this spell,’ he said, ‘always have a basin of water ready as a safety precaution.’
‘Are we going to make fire?’
‘Only if you do it wrong,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m going to make a demonstration and you must pay close attention – as you did when searching for vestigia. Do you understand?’
‘Vestigia,’ I said. ‘Got it.’
Nightingale held out his right hand palm upwards and made a fist. ‘Watch my hand,’ he said and opened his fingers. Suddenly, floating a few centimetres above his palm was a ball of light. Bright, but not so bright that I couldn’t stare right at it.
Nightingale closed his fingers and the globe vanished. ‘Again?’ he asked.
Up until then I think a bit of me had been waiting for the rational explanation, but when I saw how casually Nightingale produced that werelight I realised that I had the rational explanation – magic worked. The next question of course was – how did it work?
‘Again,’ I said.
He opened his hand and the light appeared. The source seemed to be the size of a golf ball with a smooth pearlescent surface. I leaned forward but I couldn’t tell whether the light emanated from inside the globe or from its skin.
Nightingale closed his palm. ‘Be careful,’ he said. ‘You don’t want to damage your eyes.’
I blinked and saw purple blotches. He was right – I’d been fooled by the soft quality of the light into staring too long. I splashed some water in my eyes.
‘Ready to go again?’ asked Nightingale. ‘Try and focus on the sensation as I do it – you should feel something.’
‘Something?’ I asked.
‘Magic is like music,’ said Nightingale. ‘Everyone hears it differently. The technical term we use is forma, but that’s no more helpful than “something”， is it?’
‘Can I close my eyes?’ I asked.
‘By all means,’ said Nightingale.
I did feel a ‘something’， like a catch in the silence at the moment of creation. We repeated the exercise until I was sure I wasn’t imagining it. Nightingale asked me if I had any questions. I asked him what the spell was called.
‘Colloquially it’s known as a werelight,’ he said.
‘Can you do it underwater?’ I asked.
Nightingale plunged his hand into the sink and despite the awkward angle, demonstrated forming a werelight without any apparent difficulty.
‘So it’s not a process of oxidisation, is it,’ I said.
‘Focus,’ said Nightingale. ‘Magic first, science later.’
I tried to focus, but on what?
‘In a minute,’ said Nightingale, ‘I’m going to ask you to open your hand in the same manner as I have demonstrated. As you open your hand I want you to make a shape in your mind that conforms to what you sensed when I created my werelight. Think of it as a key that opens a door. Do you understand?’
‘Hand,’ I said. ‘Shape, key, lock, door.’
‘Precisely,’ said Nightingale. ‘Start now.’
I took a deep breath, extended my arm and opened my fist – nothing happened. Nightingale didn’t laugh but I would have preferred it if he had. I took another breath, tried to ‘shape’ my mind, whatever that meant, and opened my hand again.