MAGISTER FIZZLE'S COMPENDIUM OF SPELLS THAT DID THE OPPOSITE

A Rigorous Scientific Record of Outcomes for Which I Am Not, Strictly Speaking, to Blame.

Compiled in the tower (mind the armchair, it hops) by Magister Fizzle, of House Fizzle, alchemist, theoretician, and victim of circumstances that were almost entirely beyond my control.

A Necessary Preamble, in My Defence

Let me be clear, before the laughing starts. Magic in this realm is a precise discipline. It is also a malicious one. Every incantation in this book was cast correctly. Every one of them then did the exact opposite of what was intended and, frequently, exploded. This is not incompetence. This is the nature of the medium. You may as well blame a man for getting wet by standing under the rain he ordered.

I record these not as failures but as results, because that is what a scientist does. That I keep casting anyway is also recorded, at the end, for reasons I would prefer you did not dwell upon.

Each entry: The Working (as intended) · The Result (as occurred) · In My Defence.

1 · The Fertility Charm

The Working. A modest blessing of abundance, intended for the kitchen garden. The Result. Took, instead, upon the chaise longue. The chaise longue has not returned my letters. There are now, technically, more chaises longues. I do not wish to discuss the others. In My Defence. A blessing of abundance abounded. That is literally what it does. I cannot be held responsible for the furniture's enthusiasm. Finding: magic gives you exactly what you asked for, to the wrong recipient, in the wrong quantity, with feeling.

2 · The Frog Charm

The Working. A small transformation, to demonstrate the principle to a sceptical student. The Result. The principle was demonstrated. So was the armchair, the footstool, three tapestries, and, briefly, the student. Most of them hopped to the drains, where King Tiddles welcomed them as subjects. House Glubb has gained more citizens from my work than from spawning. In My Defence. The realm's frog population has never been healthier. You're welcome. Finding: a spell does not respect the boundary of its intended object; it respects nothing.

3 · The Animating Word (the Bust)

The Working. A simple charm to make Great-Great-Grandfather's bust look a little more lifelike for a family occasion. The Result. It looks no more lifelike. It does, however, now talk, constantly, with opinions, and has done for years, and locks the ancestor-door out of spite. The family blames me. The family is correct, which I find unbecoming of them. In My Defence. They wanted the bust to seem alive. It seems extremely alive. The brief was ambiguous. Finding: be careful what you wake; it remembers being woken, and it remembers who.

4 · The Preserving Spell (the Cheese Incident)

The Working. A charm to keep Old Mother Stilton's larder fresh a little longer. The Result. It is now fresh forever, and aware. I gave the cheese the one thing no cheese should have: time, and the wits to resent it. The smell alone has been classified by House Quail as a military threat. Mother Stilton has not forgiven me. Mother Stilton forgives no one; it's in the dairy. In My Defence. She asked for things to keep. Things kept. Finding: grant something endurance and you may simply be sentencing it to a longer grievance.

5 · The Love Potion

The Working. A philtre to make a certain person look upon Lord Bastable with adoration. The Result. It works flawlessly on exactly one creature in the realm: the Liar's Unicorn, which now follows him everywhere in a state of revolting devotion. On the intended person it had no effect whatsoever, she having met Lord Bastable. In My Defence. It produced genuine, helpless love. The medium cannot be blamed for taste. Finding: magic will find you love. It will not check whether you, or it, can bear the result.

6 · The One That Never Works

The Working. (here the hand changes — smaller, steadier, sober) The undoing. The single spell I have truly wanted: to reach back and uncast the first catastrophe — the original, the one that started all the others, the one that broke the thing I will not name in a book that might be read. The Result. Nothing. Every time. No bang, no frog, no abundance, no spite. The one working in this entire tower that does exactly what it is told to do — which is nothing — is the only one I would give the rest to make misfire. In My Defence. None. I have no defence for this entry. I keep casting it. I will keep casting it. Finding: a man who cannot get a single spell right will spend his life on the one spell he most needs to, precisely because it is the only one that refuses, every time, to lie to him about what it can do.