I was so excited to see a new Jonathan prompt and had to do something about it. It's only a little thing but I hope you like it OP! I went with your Wellington suggestion.
Juggling oranges
“Magician!” Wellington clicked his fingers high above his head, shovelling chicken into his mouth with his other hand. “Fetch my horse. I ride to Lisbon presently.”
Jonathan pursed his lips as the men seated beside him sniggered over their food. Fetching horses was not the job of a magician, nor a gentleman. Unable to prove himself useful to Wellington, his experience of the Peninsula thus far had been one long humiliation.
“Yes, my Lord.” Jonathan rose, stealing one final look at his plate; his fruit and cheese would not be present once he returned from the stables, mysteriously vanishing after another joke from the soldiers no doubt.
“No, no,” Wellington said, raising a hand to prevent Mr Strange leaving the table. “Make him appear.” He gestured towards the yard. “Tacked-up, if you please.”
“Of course.” Jonathan nodded and took back his seat.
Was that even a possibility? He did not wish to decline another of Wellington’s orders, especially one not quite so absurd as his earlier requests. After a moment, recalling theoretical discussions with Norrell over the subject of material shifts and apparitions, he asked, “What does your Lordship’s horse look like?”
“Copenhagen?” Major Grant exclaimed, leaning back in his chair with an air of superiority. “Everyone knows his Lordship’s horse!”
“Yes,” Jonathan said, glancing at Grant with irritation, “But, for the magic, I’ll need to know of any distinguishing features.”
“Surely it cannot be so difficult?” Wellington asked, tearing off a piece of bread. “He is only one horse. My horse.”
Exasperated, Jonathan drew a levelled breath. He had been in the company of his Lordship’s mount before but paid it little heed, attention stolen by the man upon its saddle. The safest way to ensure he summoned the correct horse—avoiding any embarrassing errors—was a clarifying vision of the stables.
The officers continued eating, observing quietly as Jonathan removed fruit from the central bowl and half-filled it with water. Looking in, the stables obscured by low light, he asked his Lordship which stable housed Copenhagen.
“How should I know?” Wellington replied, as obliging as ever.
Jonathan scanned the stables through the water’s vision, peering into each hay-strewn loose box one by one. As each new minute passed, Jonathan sensed disappointment gathering around him. Whispers rose in volume. A few men sniggered, sceptical. His Lordship stopped eating.
“Chestnut brown,” Wellington said with a sigh as if yielding to the demands of a child. “White sock, left hind leg.”
“Thank you.” Jonathan nodded, continuing to peer into the bowl. A few horses snapped their heads up in alarm as if they knew they were under observation.
“He can’t do it,” Grant piped up. He snatched some loose oranges from beside Jonathan’s bowl. “Perhaps he’ll have better luck juggling these!”
A roar of laughter burst from the chest of every man present, the joke prompting the pouring of more brandy and a firm pat on Grant’s back from Colonel De Lancey.
While the officers enjoyed themselves, Jonathan continued his search. Realising many horses were stomach-deep in mud from a recent ride, some being washed down by their keepers, he knew he had to take a chance on finding one with a white sock.
One hand poised above the water, Jonathan closed his eyes. The officers hushed, composing themselves at the possibility of magic. The spell Jonathan whispered, studied in Norrell’s library but never performed, summoned objects a magician had previously encountered. However, as Norrell pushed, the magician’s description must be entirely accurate for the correct item to appear.
The incantation complete, Jonathan opened his eyes and looked out into the yard. There stood Copenhagen, unperturbed by his sudden relocation, saddle and bridle in place. Jonathan anticipated the feat to be met with stunned silence, perhaps a gasp or two. Then he heard a titter: Wellington.
The titter grew into a chuckle, the chuckle a laugh, every officer standing to discover the cause of his Lordship’s genial disposition. The table soon fell into a state of chaos, officers falling over themselves with laughter.
Jonathan realised, in a moment of crushing shame, that Copenhagen sported a real white stocking on his hind leg. It was one of Arabella’s, tied above his knee with a length of blue ribbon. He hoped she hadn’t been wearing it at the time of its relocation.
“You have a good sense of humour, magician,” Wellington said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Next time, the horse alone will suffice.”
Fill: Juggling oranges
Juggling oranges
“Magician!” Wellington clicked his fingers high above his head, shovelling chicken into his mouth with his other hand. “Fetch my horse. I ride to Lisbon presently.”
Jonathan pursed his lips as the men seated beside him sniggered over their food. Fetching horses was not the job of a magician, nor a gentleman. Unable to prove himself useful to Wellington, his experience of the Peninsula thus far had been one long humiliation.
“Yes, my Lord.” Jonathan rose, stealing one final look at his plate; his fruit and cheese would not be present once he returned from the stables, mysteriously vanishing after another joke from the soldiers no doubt.
“No, no,” Wellington said, raising a hand to prevent Mr Strange leaving the table. “Make him appear.” He gestured towards the yard. “Tacked-up, if you please.”
“Of course.” Jonathan nodded and took back his seat.
Was that even a possibility? He did not wish to decline another of Wellington’s orders, especially one not quite so absurd as his earlier requests. After a moment, recalling theoretical discussions with Norrell over the subject of material shifts and apparitions, he asked, “What does your Lordship’s horse look like?”
“Copenhagen?” Major Grant exclaimed, leaning back in his chair with an air of superiority. “Everyone knows his Lordship’s horse!”
“Yes,” Jonathan said, glancing at Grant with irritation, “But, for the magic, I’ll need to know of any distinguishing features.”
“Surely it cannot be so difficult?” Wellington asked, tearing off a piece of bread. “He is only one horse. My horse.”
Exasperated, Jonathan drew a levelled breath. He had been in the company of his Lordship’s mount before but paid it little heed, attention stolen by the man upon its saddle. The safest way to ensure he summoned the correct horse—avoiding any embarrassing errors—was a clarifying vision of the stables.
The officers continued eating, observing quietly as Jonathan removed fruit from the central bowl and half-filled it with water. Looking in, the stables obscured by low light, he asked his Lordship which stable housed Copenhagen.
“How should I know?” Wellington replied, as obliging as ever.
Jonathan scanned the stables through the water’s vision, peering into each hay-strewn loose box one by one. As each new minute passed, Jonathan sensed disappointment gathering around him. Whispers rose in volume. A few men sniggered, sceptical. His Lordship stopped eating.
“Chestnut brown,” Wellington said with a sigh as if yielding to the demands of a child. “White sock, left hind leg.”
“Thank you.” Jonathan nodded, continuing to peer into the bowl. A few horses snapped their heads up in alarm as if they knew they were under observation.
“He can’t do it,” Grant piped up. He snatched some loose oranges from beside Jonathan’s bowl. “Perhaps he’ll have better luck juggling these!”
A roar of laughter burst from the chest of every man present, the joke prompting the pouring of more brandy and a firm pat on Grant’s back from Colonel De Lancey.
While the officers enjoyed themselves, Jonathan continued his search. Realising many horses were stomach-deep in mud from a recent ride, some being washed down by their keepers, he knew he had to take a chance on finding one with a white sock.
One hand poised above the water, Jonathan closed his eyes. The officers hushed, composing themselves at the possibility of magic. The spell Jonathan whispered, studied in Norrell’s library but never performed, summoned objects a magician had previously encountered. However, as Norrell pushed, the magician’s description must be entirely accurate for the correct item to appear.
The incantation complete, Jonathan opened his eyes and looked out into the yard. There stood Copenhagen, unperturbed by his sudden relocation, saddle and bridle in place. Jonathan anticipated the feat to be met with stunned silence, perhaps a gasp or two. Then he heard a titter: Wellington.
The titter grew into a chuckle, the chuckle a laugh, every officer standing to discover the cause of his Lordship’s genial disposition. The table soon fell into a state of chaos, officers falling over themselves with laughter.
Jonathan realised, in a moment of crushing shame, that Copenhagen sported a real white stocking on his hind leg. It was one of Arabella’s, tied above his knee with a length of blue ribbon. He hoped she hadn’t been wearing it at the time of its relocation.
“You have a good sense of humour, magician,” Wellington said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Next time, the horse alone will suffice.”