The first voice I heard was Lord Gleinleigh’s. It’s a silly thing, but I turned off the lamp, because I didn’t want him to notice even a faint glow beneath the door and realize someone was still awake. He was in such a bad mood after the mess today, and I was in such a bad mood, too, that I didn’t want to have any kind of conversation with him.
I have no idea why he was still awake, or whether he got up again like I did, but I assumed he was talking to the housekeeper or the butler or someone about a domestic matter. In a moment he would go upstairs and I could get back to work, or try my own bed again.
That’s when I heard Mornett. I recognize that voice, even through a library door. And then the handle of the door rattled, as if someone had put their hand on it.
Oh, I am so ashamed of myself! I should have turned the lamp back on, or gone to the door and opened it and greeted them like a normal person. Or listened to their conversation, and pretended that I was just about to open the door if they entered. But did I do any of those things? No. I bolted for cover. All because I could not stand the thought of facing Aaron Mornett in the middle of the night, with my face all swollen and no shoes on.
I might as well have stayed put, because they didn’t come in. But it means I didn’t really hear what they were saying—just muffled bits and pieces, none of them informative. Mornett sounded furious, though. Gleinleigh kept his voice too low for me to make out many words, but I heard Mornett say things like “unacceptable” and “if you think I’m going to.”
If Gleinleigh thinks he is going to . . . what?
Come on, Audrey; you know the answer to that. The only business Aaron Mornett could have at Stokesley involves the tablets.
Is it me he’s angry about? Or Kudshayn? Or both of us; our work here must stick in his craw like two chicken bones. Mornett’s been Mrs. Kefford’s pet scholar for a while now—I wonder if the conversation Lotte saw was Gleinleigh trying to get her to loan Mornett to him. As if I would ever work with Aaron Mornett, after what he did.
If that bastard comes anywhere near these tablets, I am going to burn him to ash, like I should have done five years ago.
FIVE YEARS SPREVIOUSLY
From: Audrey Camherst
To: Charlotte Camherst
16 Seminis, 5657
#3 Clarton Square, Falchester
Dearest Lotte,
Welcome home! Aren’t you delighted to be back in rainy old Scirland, after visiting Mama’s family? For weeks now I’ve been prepared to say I’d trade places with you in a heartbeat—swarms of tropical mosquitoes and all—except that things have taken an interesting turn lately. I’m so glad you’re back, because I’m fairly exploding with the need to tell someone what’s happened.
I was so convinced that my Season was going to be nothing but boredom. Everyone says it isn’t what it used to be, back in their day—which is the kind of thing the older generations always say, but in this case I think it’s true. And even if it were what it used to be, I don’t think I would enjoy it. You’ll probably have a splendid time of it once you’re old enough, but you know me; this isn’t at all my métier. Dances here, afternoon tea there, riding in the park . . . that last is not very appealing when one has never sat a horse in one’s life. Now, if there were chances to display one’s sailing skill, I might actually do well. But the closest anyone comes is paddling in little rowboats on the Immerway, and while I can paddle with the best of them, ladies are expected to sit quietly and let the gentlemen do the work. It’s all fine and well for them, getting to show off their strength (and I saw one fellow out there in his vest, if you can believe it—marvellous arms he had, too), but not exactly a thrilling exercise for the ladies. At least not if you’re me.
But! I should have known that Grandmama wouldn’t put me through all that. She told me my first day in town that she didn’t care a fig whether I got a husband or not, unless I was in a hurry to find one, and when I said I had no particular thoughts in that direction, she simply nodded and said, “Then we will take you elsewhere.”
She says that while the Season isn’t what it used to be, it’s still important to make one’s debut, because this is the point at which you leave childhood behind and become a member of society—with a little s, not a capital one. She means that I am an adult now, at the ripe age of eighteen. And as an adult, it’s time I started to meet my peers and predecessors.
I’ve met some of them before, of course, because one can’t be a member of this family and not meet a whole passel of scholars. But being at sea so often with Mama and Papa means I’ve missed out on a lot of the social connections you got by staying in Scirland, and Grandmama is determined to make up for it.
My Season has therefore consisted of very few dances and afternoon teas (though a few of those, for form’s sake), and a great many more literary evenings and afternoon lectures. Grandmama’s equivalent of introducing me to every eligible bachelor is making sure I meet people from all sorts of fields, not just philology: I have conversed with geologists, naturalists, physicists, chemists, and scads of other-ists, not to mention historians, geographers, mathematicians, and an architect or two. I must confess, Lotte, the awe-inspiring quality of the initials F.P.C. wear off when you can’t throw a shoe without hitting a Fellow of the Philosophers’ Colloquium. Which we could also say of dinner at home sometimes, but it’s different when it’s strangers—until you’ve seen one of those strangers have a bit too much brandy and begin lecturing everyone within earshot on the proper pluralization of “octopus.” (He insisted it should be “octopodes,” after the Nichaean.)
It is funny, then, that I should possibly stumble across the very thing I was not looking for, in what everyone would say is the wrong place to find it.
This afternoon, Grandmama abandoned me on the Colloquium’s premises while she went upstairs to have an argument with the President. (He is not at all keen on this notion she has of publishing her memoirs—I think because he knows they won’t be entirely flattering to the Colloquium.) I didn’t mind, since she got me access to the library, even though I’m not a Fellow yet myself. I could keep myself entertained there for weeks, if someone were kind enough to supply me with food and water.
So I was wandering amongst the shelves when I heard an amused voice say, “You seem a bit young for a Fellow.”
I turned to see a young man standing at the end of the aisle. The windows were behind him, so I couldn’t see his face, but he had a lovely build (I wouldn’t mind watching him paddle around the lake in his vest) and an even lovelier voice—deep and rich, with just enough of a burr to give it texture.
I couldn’t resist being impertinent. “Henry Finsworth was inducted for having isolated caffeine when he was only fourteen,” I said. “Or are you suggesting that a young lady must inevitably take longer to do anything of significance?”
He laughed. “I would never dream of it.”
Then he came forward and a little to the side, so he was no longer backlit. “You don’t appear to be much older than me,” I said. Which may not have been the most polite thing to do—but he brought up my age before I brought up his, and besides, that was actually the least awkward thing I could think to say. He had a very nice head of dark hair, not varnished into place with pomade like the fashionable men do, and while his face was not the most beautiful I’ve seen, the intelligence and character of his eyes made up for it.