Caller of Lightning Read online

  “All right,” he said, turning to face Penn. “You have proposed magic. I grant you the notion, and ask what seems most obvious. How is the Crown dealing with this? Have trials begun?”

  “We are not superstitious Puritans, William. We do not summarily execute people for their beliefs. This is a different time—Deists control the Royal Society despite the King’s grant, Quakers bend the knee to no church and get their own colonies, and magic is abroad in the land once more, growing stronger. So we watch. We observe. We catalog and record, and on order from the Archbishop of Canterbury, when there is nothing else for it, we simply imprison these poor unfortunates until such time as they repent and declare loyalty to the church.”

  “I don’t understand. The Bible says ‘suffer not a witch to live.’ Is not our duty to take a stronger stance?”

  “That is under some debate,” said Thomas, with a brief shake of his head. “It has been two hundred years since a member of our Parliament, Reginald Scott, advanced the theory that ‘witch’ was a mistranslation from the Hebrew word mekhashepha, which he felt more accurately meant ‘poisoner.’ And it has been over twenty years since our good King repealed the old laws. Here, witchcraft is no crime.”

  “So the Archbishop does not believe this is Satan’s work?”

  “The Most Reverend Thomas Secker is wise. All who promise their life to the Lord are welcome in His church, so long as they repent and live a life of virtue. At least, that is what he says from his pulpit.”

  “Convenient.” William frowned.

  “This is not Satan’s work, but neither is it the Lord’s work, William. It takes from the land and the Throne for personal gain. This makes it evil, no mistake, even if it is not directed by the hand and will of Satan—men can be evil enough on their own, without inspiration from that quarter.” Penn stared straight into William’s eyes, challenging him. “And I am sorry to have to say it, but your own father, as you well know, is one of those engaging in these selfish practices.”

  William said nothing, but Penn read acquiescence in the young man’s sudden change in bearing.

  Penn continued. “The loved ones of those we have uncovered bear a special burden. I’m sure you have been more than a little troubled by his efforts in this realm, both on his behalf, and of course out of concern for the greater good of Englishmen everywhere. But do not fear—” Thomas Penn took William’s hands within his own, as if they were praying together. “—Our gracious King has asked me to personally enlist your aid in his quest to defeat this evil and return England to its proper glory.”

  “I’m sorry . . . you said the King . . . ”

  “He has created a charter in support of Archbishop Secker. We will bring these people back to obedience unto God and destroy any magics they have left behind.”

  “I knew,” William admitted. Speaking the truth to Penn felt liberating. “I knew that what Father was engaging with was not in good order. He was always one to test the boundaries, but these forays into magic were never seemly. He calls them arcane laws, but they are not just another philosophy. They are witchcraft, and they never felt right to me.”

  Penn finally released William’s hands, but it seemed to William that he could still feel the gentle pressure of the man’s touch. William, once started, found it difficult to stop. He told Thomas Penn of the night of the kite experiment, the Key and how it was oddly bound to his father, and—at great length— the unease he had felt since then.

  Thomas nodded sagely, looking with compassion on the young Franklin. “Your father is a mage, William, and it is up to us to save his immortal soul.”

  The

  Stevenson Home

  Craven Street

  London, England

  November 24th

  21

  Immediately!

  William bent over the desk in his Craven Street room, sealing a letter. His jacket was draped across the back of his chair, but the rest of his clothing was crisp and formal, as usual. With a sigh, he cocked his head to the side, listening.

  Nothing could be heard.

  “King,” he said loudly. “I called you! Attend! Attend, blast it!” He finally heard the sound of steps approaching the door and turned to it angrily. “When I—”

  But instead of the sullen, resentful face of King that he expected to see, he was confronted instead by the friendly smile of Polly Stevenson.

  “I heard you calling. I wondered what might be—”

  William interrupted her, “I am not much interested in what you are wondering. Truly. I am just working at my studies and trying to make sure . . . ” William stopped, his dignity failing him. “I just . . . ”

  Polly looked at him thoughtfully. “It’s King again, isn’t it?”

  William glowered at her for a moment. Despite his father pushing for him and Polly to come to a closer acquaintanceship, the truth was that he disliked the uppity girl. To his mind she was too full of herself by half, and he was certain that her friendly manner concealed a disaffection every bit as strong as his own.

  He stood up, holding the letter behind his back. “You wouldn’t, by any chance, know where he might be?”

  Polly smiled. “I do.”

  So irritating. “Then share, pray tell, for I would like to know.”

  Polly tapped one forefinger to her lips, and let her gaze drift momentarily heavenward. “Well, to be precise, I don’t know exactly where he is at this moment. More the general direction . . . ”

  “Please stop shillyshallying and tell me what you know of King’s whereabouts.”

  “Ah, well,” Polly demurred, “perhaps I shouldn’t. I don’t want to get him in trouble.”

  “He is already in trouble, Miss Stevenson. Constantly, as he is an incompetent buffoon. Just get on with it.” William’s jaw tightened. He could feel the heat rising in his face, betraying a lack of control which was an embarrassment in its own right.

  “As you wish. Your father desires Peter’s assistance with his present condition, which has required steaming hot water vapors to assist his breathing all morning. More medicine must be procured, so Mr. Franklin sent King off on that errand.”

  “How ridiculous,” William fumed. “Father knows that King does not have Peter’s facility for finding his way around London. He will get lost in no time.”

  “Possibly. But how is a person supposed to improve if they are never allowed to venture a task? Do you always speak so poorly of those you refuse to empower to grow?”

  William glared at Polly. “People do not grow to be more than they were born to be. Our capacities are as set and prescribed as the pieces on a chessboard.”

  Polly tilted her head to the side, clearly amused. “Just as you say, William. That is why we cannot promote a pawn to be a queen on the board. Oh wait—we can do exactly that!”

  “Play whatever word games you wish; you know the truth in what I say.” He longed to end this unintended conversation. “When was he sent out, pray tell?”

  Polly looked away and slid a finger along the doorframe, as if checking for dust. She continued to ignore how piqued he was as she pretended to inspect her fingertip for grime. “Oh, now that I think on it, I believe he has been gone some considerable amount of time. Certainly much longer than should be expected.” She glanced back with a wicked grin. “What is it you have there, behind your back? Is it a love letter?”

  Exasperated, William sought to shove past her through the doorway, and in the ensuing tangle Polly managed to snatch the letter from his hand. She was laughing as she did so, but when she saw the name and address on the envelope she stopped in surprise; which gave William the chance to grab it back.

  Before he could give vent to his anger, he was interrupted by King’s voice, calling up from the stairs.

  “Mr. Franklin, sir? I’m back. They tell me you’ve been calling—”

  “Never mind that. Come up here at once.” Turning his back on Polly, William met King as he reached the top
of the stairs, and handed him the letter. “You will deliver this immediately—and I mean immediately—to the address on the envelope. Just leave it with whomever answers the door. Do not detour or dawdle on the way and return here directly afterward.”

  Polly looked on with big eyes. “Weren’t you just talking about how incapable this man is, William? How is he to find his way?”

  “He already knows the way, you stupid . . . ” William stopped midsentence, taking firm control of himself. He refused to allow the girl the pleasure of baiting him in front of his own slave. “I will not have this. King, see to your task at once. Miss Stevenson, please leave me to my studies.” With that, William returned to his room and closed the door firmly behind him, resisting a strong compulsion to slam it shut.

  As King started back down the stairs, Polly called to him and held out her hand for the letter. “You have already been abroad once today, King, and it is very cold. Why don’t you give that to me while you stay in and assist with the cooking? I can have Jemmy deliver it for you.”

  King looked at her for a moment longer than she was entirely comfortable with, his face wary. In this instant the young slave seemed both older and more certain of himself than Polly had ever observed. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, mistress,” he answered her. And with that, he turned and descended out of sight.

  The

  Stevenson Home

  Craven Street

  London, England

  November 24th

  22

  Not Who You Think

  Ben sat upright in bed, re-reading the latest in a series of dissembling letters from Thomas Penn. Like the others of its kind it was a sham, couched in formal but affable language, that pretended to deal with matters of practical substance while never mentioning the real conflict between them. Franklin allowed himself the pleasure of composing a blunt reply in his mind, knowing that it would never be written down or sent, and that his actual answer would be no less false beneath its surface. There might yet come a time to use stark words, plainly stated; before then he had much to uncover and learn. Now if only his bloody body would cooperate! He pulled the warm orange cover-up close round his neck, snuggling into it, as another cough racked his chest.

  As it subsided there was a knock on his door, and then Polly came in with his evening meal. She was in a simple house dress, proper but unassuming, and she wore the brooch that always drew his attention. The tray she carried had simple fare on it, steaming porridge and equally hot tea, with root of the licorice to soothe his stomach. He frowned and sighed, putting the letter to the side.

  “This is Peter’s task, Polly.”

  “I prevailed upon him to let me look in on you. How are you feeling? I see you are still laying about as though you haven’t a care in the world.” She took a good look at him, plainly worried despite her lighthearted tone of voice.

  He watched as her gaze drifted to his own necklace, then quickly darted away. Interesting, he thought, but kept his reply jovial. “Nonsense. Can’t a man rest, after jousting all day with Jack Slack?”

  “Might as well name your croup after a boxing man,” Polly said, placing the tray on the bedside table. “It’s laid you out same as he would.”

  Ben harrumphed, but smiled. “This plague is the devil’s own, I grant you. But I will outlast it in the end. Another day or two . . . or three . . . and I shall be fine. Never fear. Now out with it, please. Why are you really here? You have the look of someone with words that want saying.”

  “It’s probably nothing,” Polly said, pouring the infused tea from pot to mug.

  “Nothing enough to interrupt me in my sickbed? Go on, go on,” he said, taking the steaming mug from her hands.

  “Oh, rot!” Polly squared her shoulders. She moved the room’s chair nearer the bed, then sat in it, placing their eyes at near-level. “The letter you were reading when I entered—it is from Thomas Penn, is it not?”

  “Yes. But you knew that. You were here when it came in the post.” Ben stared at Polly with increasing curiosity. Something was clearly troubling her, and he had no notion what it might be.

  “As I’ve said, it may be nothing. but I feel bound to tell you. Earlier today I saw William send King out to deliver a letter. And while it was a London address—Albemarle Street, as I recall—the name on the envelope was unmistakably Thomas Penn’s.”

  Ben was sitting bolt upright now. “He what?” The shocked exclamation was followed quickly by a coughing fit. When Ben finally had his lungs under control again, he wiped his hand against the blankets and started all over. “I’m sorry, I must have misheard. The damnfool boy did what?”

  Polly sighed deeply. “No, no. Ben. I knew I shouldn’t have told you. But I also knew I had to, even though I shouldn’t. Oh, this is impossible!”

  “You needn’t put on the pretend flummoxed act, Polly. I think you fully understand what this means. But why in the world? What in the world would William have to communicate to Thomas Penn’s household?”

  “When a promoted pawn moves back up the board, it is no longer a pawn. But it is still being moved by someone’s hand.” Polly paused, giving Ben a sad look. “I think, Ben, that William is not who you think he is.”

  Ben looked at her blankly, then shook his head. “He is my son. I know him far better than you do. I love you as I love my own daughter, Polly, even in this short time we have known each other. But make no mistake—William is a Franklin. He’s always been a bit of a popinjay, I’ll grant you that, and more rigid in his thoughts than I might prefer. But he and I, we always have the grandest adventures.”

  “Which only makes this worse.” Polly took Ben’s hand, seeking to both console and convince. “I’m so sorry, Ben, but you need to know the rest. It was clear this was not the first time King had been to that address.”

  Ben looked away from the girl, wanting to find thoughts and words to counter her. But as he considered the truth of his own experience, he could not. The rift between father and son that had been born years earlier, in the aftermath of lightning; the change which he had forced himself to ignore had only grown larger during all the time he had avoided seeing it. Over the last few months, in particular, William had seemed more distant, ever since starting his studies at The Honorable Society of the Middle Temple. Ben had been eager to advance his son’s opportunities by opening the way for him to be called to the English Bar, and for William to someday be a barrister. When William stopped joining him in visiting salons and coffeehouses around London, he had ascribed it to William’s naturally intense desire to be considered entirely upright and respectable in the eyes of his fellow students. But this additional piece of news that Polly had delivered altered Ben’s view of everything.

  Polly waited patiently as he struggled through the implications. When he finally turned back towards her, she sensed a wound in him she feared might never heal.

  “He really is a bad chess player, isn’t he? If he had troubled himself to write anywhere but here, we would never have known. It’s so frustrating, having no grand society connections like the Penns do.”

  “You? No connections? Are you daft?” Polly squeezed Ben’s hand. “If that’s really how you feel, it’s time for you to get better. There are some people I want you to meet.”

  1758

  The

  Turk's Head

  Coffeehouse

  London, England

  January 22nd

  23

  Get a Number

  Ben stood stiffly in the coffeehouse cloakroom as Polly removed and hung his greatcoat, then neatened his coat and cravat. “All is well in the name of decorum,” he complained, “but had I really gotten that far out of order?” His breath puffed in the air; it was still chill in the vestibule, though not as cold as the street outside.

  “Tsk,” Polly fretted, making sure every line in his garments was just so. “You get into all manner of things as you walk, Ben. You make a fine gentleman, but you’re so, so .�
��. . colonial, sometimes.”

  His chest puffed out in pride. “I am proud to be an Englishman from the American Colonies.”

  “You know what I mean.” She stepped back and gave him the up-and-down. Tonight needed to be perfect—it was to be her introduction of him into her philosophy club, the Society of Numbers. Further, it was his first real night out after almost three months of being bedridden with a shortness of breath and lassitude that she had feared at times would prove deadly. “All right. You’re as ready as I can make you.”

  Ben lifted a wry eyebrow but did not directly address her comment. Instead he gave voice to a greater concern than the sartorial. “You are certain that these friends of yours can be of assistance?”

  “They have given me much. After they have taken your measure, which they will do in their own fashion, we will learn what they may be willing to do for you. There are no guarantees,” she admitted. “But I promise an interesting evening.”

  Taking his arm, she led him through the interior doors and into the coffeehouse proper, which was bustling with activity. Long tables ran from the center of the room up to the windows, separating the counter and coffee-boy near the entrance from the private rooms in back. At the counter they ordered and were served, after which they headed for the private areas in the back. Many of the patrons looked askance at Polly, but she studiously ignored them. “My penny is as good as theirs,” she had explained to Ben when he had expressed surprise at the announced location of their meeting.

  The back area in the Turk’s Head was as large as the public front, though the space was used differently. In addition to private booths it had three private rooms, each with its own closable door, where parties could sit and discuss what they would without having to overcome the boisterous noise of the common area.

  Entering the central room, Ben and Polly found seven people waiting: two ladies and five gentlemen. The assembled company showed a wide range of style, indicative of diverse backgrounds. Some wore modern fashion, to at least the standard set by Polly and Ben himself. The most elderly man, who was speaking as they walked in, wore tights and a purple velvet coat with brass buttons. The woman on the far side of the circle—whom Ben was startled to realize he already knew—was dressed in observant Quaker plainclothes, with a white cap and a blue dress. Despite this apparent hodgepodge of social levels and backgrounds, the group shared a common air of education and expectation; and it was clear that their interrupted conversation had been lively.