The woman hovered near the table. "Arthur, Nathaniel's here," she said.

The spider had backed its way into a dark corner above the door. On hearing these words it remained motionless, as spiders do. But inwardly it thrilled.

Nathaniel! Good. That was a start.

I had the pleasure of seeing the boy wince. His eyes flitted to and fro, no doubt wondering if I was there.

The magician gave no sign that he had heard, but remained engrossed in the paper. His wife began rearranging a rather sorry display of dried flowers over the mantelpiece. I guessed then who was responsible for the vase in the boy's room. Dead flowers for the husband, fresh ones for the apprentice—that was intriguing.

Again Underwood unfolded, turned, smacked the paper, resumed his reading. The boy stood silently waiting. Now that I was free of the circle and thus not under his direct control, I had a chance to assess him more clinically. He had (of course) removed his raggedy coat and was soberly dressed in gray trousers and jumper. His hair had been wetted and was slicked back. A sheaf of papers was under his arm. He was a picture of quiet deference.

He had no obviously defining features—no moles, no oddities, no scars. His hair was dark and straight, his face tended toward the pinched. His skin was very pale. To a casual observer, he was an unremarkable boy. But to my wiser and more jaundiced gaze there were other things to note: shrewd and calculating eyes; fingers that tapped impatiently on the papers he held; most of all a very careful face that by subtle shifts took on whatever expression was expected of it. For the moment he had adopted a submissive but attentive look that would flatter an old man's vanity. Yet continually he cast his eye around the room, searching for me.

I made it easy for him. When he was looking in my direction, I gave a couple of small scuttles on the wall, waved a few arms, wiggled my abdomen in a cheery fashion. He saw me straight off, went paler than ever, bit his lip. Couldn't do anything about me though, without giving his game away.

In the middle of my dance, Underwood suddenly grunted dismissively and slapped the back of his hand against his paper. "See here, Martha," he said. "Makepeace is filling the theaters again with his Eastern piffle. Swans of Araby… I ask you, did you ever hear of such sentimental claptrap? And yet it's sold out until the end of January! Quite bizarre."

"It's all booked up? Oh, Arthur, I'd rather wanted to go—"

"And I quote: … in which a sweet—limbed missionary lass from Chiswick falls in love with a tawny djinni… —it's not just romantic nonsense, it's damnably dangerous too. Spreads misinformation to the people."

"Oh, Arthur—"

"You've seen djinn, Martha. Have you seen one 'with dusky eyes that will melt your heart'? Melt your face, maybe."

"I'm sure you're right, Arthur."

"Makepeace should know better. Disgraceful. I'd do something about it, but he's in too deep with the Prime Minister."

"Yes, dear. Would you like more coffee, dear?"

"No. The P.M. should be helping out my Internal Affairs department rather than socializing his time away. Four more thefts, Martha, four in the last week. Valuable items they were, too. I tell you, we're going to the dogs." So saying, Underwood lifted his mustache with one hand and expertly passed the lip of his cup beneath. He drank long and loudly. "Martha, this is cold. Fetch more coffee, will you?"

With good grace the wife bustled off on her errand. As she exited, the magician tossed his paper to one side and deigned to notice his pupil at last.

The old man grunted. "So. You're here, are you?"

Despite his anxiety, the boy's voice was steady. "Yes, sir. You sent for me, sir."

"I did indeed. Now, I have been speaking to your teachers, and with the exception of Mr. Sindra, all have satisfactory reports to make on you." He held up his hand to silence the boy's prompt articulations of thanks. "Heaven knows, you don't deserve it after what you did last year. However, despite certain deficiencies, to which I have repeatedly drawn your attention, you have made some progress with the central tenets. Thus"—a dramatic pause—"I feel that the time is right for you to conduct your first summons."

He uttered this last sentence in slow resounding tones that were evidently designed to fill the boy with awe. But Nathaniel, as I was now so delighted to call him, was distracted. He had a spider on his mind.

His unease was not lost on Underwood. The magician rapped the table peremptorily to attract his pupil's attention.

"Listen to me, boy!" he said. "If you fret at the very prospect of a summons you will never make a magician, even now. A well—prepared magician fears nothing. Do you understand?"

The boy gathered himself, fixed his attention on his master. "Yes, sir; of course, sir."

"Besides, I shall be with you at all times during the summoning, in an adjoining circle. I shall have a dozen protective charms to hand and plenty of powdered rosemary. We shall start with a lowly demon, a natterjack impling.[31] If that proves successful, we shall move on to a mouler."[32]

It was a measure of how unobservant this magician was that he quite failed to notice the flame of contempt that flickered in the boy's eyes. He only heard the blandly eager voice. "Yes, sir. I'm looking forward to it very much, sir."

"Excellent. You have your lenses?"

"Yes, sir. They arrived last week."

"Good. Then there is only one other arrangement we need to make, and that is—"

"Was that the door, sir?"

"Don't interrupt me, boy. How dare you? The other arrangement, which I will withhold if you are insolent again, is the choosing of your official name. We shall turn our attention to that this afternoon. Bring Loew's Nominative Almanac to me in the library after luncheon and we shall choose one for you together."

"Yes, sir."

The boy's shoulders had slumped; his voice was barely audible. He did not need to see me capering on my web to know that I had heard and understood.

Nathaniel wasn't just his official name! It was his real name! The fool had summoned me before consigning his birth name to oblivion. And now I knew it!

Underwood shifted in his chair. "Well, what are you waiting for, boy? This is no time for slacking—you've got hours yet to study before lunch. Get on your way."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

The boy moved listlessly to the door. Gnashing my mandibles with glee, I followed him through with an extra—special reverse somersault with octal hitchkick.

I had a chance at him now. Things were a bit more even. He knew my name, I knew his. He had six years' experience, I had five thousand and ten. That was the kind of odds you could do something with.

I accompanied him up the stairs. He was dawdling now, dragging each step out.

Come on, come on! Get back to your pentacle. I was racing ahead, eager for the contest to begin.

Oh, the boots were on the other eight feet now, all right.