Gwynn wondered if the sudden hint of venom in Reg’s voice was an echo of the duke’s tone or reflected his own attitude toward magic.

“Of course Master Justinian will investigate the problem with the castle warding spell as well,” Master Radolphus said. “Why don’t you come with me and take some refreshment while Master Justinian is packing.”

Reg pried himself away from the hearth, stuck his hands in his pockets, and ambled out. Justinian reclaimed his chair with an injured air.

“I’m sorry, Jus,” Radolphus said, pausing in the doorway. “Pack so you can stay a few days if need be.”

Actually, Gwynn did most of the packing, filling a large trunk with the magical supplies the Maestro would require and a small carpet bag with what she might need for an overnight stay. The Maestro packed his medicines, in a satchel nearly as large and easily as heavy as the trunk.

It was midnight by the time they set out, and the six-hour trip seemed interminable, despite the relative luxury of the duke’s coach. Largely, Gwynn decided, because of Reg. Although he appeared to sleep through most of the journey, his presence prevented any interesting conversation. And even asleep, his sour face and the memory of his brusque, almost rude manner cast a pall over the party. Or perhaps it was that Reg fell asleep so easily despite the jolting of the coach while the Maestro’s attempts at much-needed slumber failed miserably. Justinian finally gave up trying and sat, glowering at Reg and muttering under his breath whenever the manservant’s snores grew particularly loud.

The Maestro put on his most gracious manner again when they arrived at the castle.

“At least we’ll have a good breakfast,” he murmured to Gwynn, when Reg had deposited them in the duke’s entrance hall and gone to announce their arrival. “The duke’s personal chef is legendary.”