Read The Ice King (A Witch Ways Whisper) for Free Online

street in the university town of Oxbridge. The ground floor was a bespoke tailor and gents outfitters, Todber and Murnhall, of such antiquity it could be considered time travel to step through their double doors. Jeffery Todber and Malcolm Murnhall ran the place and had been there forever amongst the beautifully carved and crafted shop fittings, the counter made from oak polished to a soft golden honey colour and beneath, the glass fronted drawers that held a vivid spectrum of cravats and ties, shirts and socks, handkerchiefs and pyjamas. The Duke of Wellington had bought all his campaign pants there.
    When the great adventurer Henry Fitzharold-Pimm had conquered the Eiger, he had done it in tweeds and a gaberdine mackintosh purchased at Todber and Murnhull.
    Jeffery and Malcolm owned the building freehold and rented out the office space and small flat above.
    “You won’t be blowing stuff up will you?” they asked as Lachlan looked around the small spaces.
    “No. I don’t practice that sort of science. “ Lachlan reassured them. He wasn’t entirely sure what sort of science he did practice these days. Boundaries were becoming smirched.
    It had been a difficult interview, the faculty board room wheezed with beeswax polish and ancient traditions.
    “We do not feel there is a justification for your presence in the university….” Professor Folds’ eyes were invisible behind the thin discs of his glasses, gilded by the afternoon sun.
    “Adequate.” Professor Miflin interjected from his position at the far end of the room. He was perched at the edge of the vast mahogany table barricaded in behind a parapet of paperwork.
    “I beg your pardon?” Professor Folds turned the gilded spectacles towards his colleague. Minion was the word that printed into Lachlan’s head.
    “There is no ‘adequate’ justification. I am certain that Dr Laidlaw can provide his own justifications but we must reiterate the fact that such passions and enthusiasms, theories and methodology as Dr Laidlaw has been pursuing are not, in and of themselves, ‘adequate’ justification for the continuance of his research grant.”
    Professor Miflin looked over his own spectacles, his eyes eager and bureaucratic. There was a prolonged silence and it would not have surprised Dr Lachlan Laidlaw to find a death ray emanating from Professor Folds eyes. It was, after all, rumoured all over the Oxbridge and Camford campuses that that was the ultimate goal of Professor Folds’ own research.
    “You are an inordinately intelligent young man, Dr Laidlaw” Professor Folds looked directly into Laidlaw’s face “I am therefore sure that you can foresee this meeting’s inevitable outcome.”
    An hour or so later and Lachlan was moving his belongings, few as they were, out of the small laboratory and smaller office which he had occupied on the Oxbridge campus since completing his PhD. He was surprised when there was a knock on the door and Professor Folds stepped in.
    “Give this research up Lachlan. ” he was deadly serious “It will be the ruin of what could be a glorious academic career.”
    Lachlan reached for a jar of pencils that wasn’t his and packed them into his briefcase.
    “I can’t relinquish the research Professor. I am too close to finding the edges….”
    “Poppycock.” Folds spoke with emotion “Balderdash. Twaddle. Pass by the English department on your way off campus and I’m sure they can furnish you with further adjectives such as woolly-headed and hare brained and folly-ridden.”
    Lachlan could smell Professor Folds tobacco and the aftershave his wife bought for him at Penhaligon’s.
    “The folly, sir, is to look away. This ancient knowledge has been lost to us, we looked away in the past and that loss could ultimately endanger our very existence. My research has already led me to….”
    “It’s ghost hunting, it’s fairy tales…”
    “It’s the edges of things…it is connection, lines of communication, links and