“I am twenty-two,” he said, seeming entirely uninsulted. “As you just pointed out, that’s hardly a record-setter in these halls.”
But that implied he was in fact a Fellow, rather than a hanger-on like I was. That quickly, I knew who he was. “You’re Aaron Mornett!”
The confines of the aisle were close enough that he couldn’t really bow, but he inclined a bit at the waist and flicked his fingers from his brow in acknowledgment. “And you, I presume, are one of Lady Trent’s granddaughters.”
I found it strange, when I first debuted in Falchester, that everyone seemed to know who I was. While in theory that is the point of a debut, in truth there are so many young people here that nobody knows them all. But very few of those young people are half Utalu, so after a while I realized that of course everyone was going to know about me. Still, it made me glad that I had guessed his name first; it put us on equal footing. “Audrey Camherst. You cracked the Draconean system of weights and measurements just last year, didn’t you?”
He didn’t affect any false modesty. “Yes, I did. Not the kind of thing most people care a jot about, but with your family, I’m hardly surprised.”
“I’m a philologist, too,” I said eagerly. “I keep up with all the journals—well, as best as I can when I’m at sea half the time with my parents. I’ve even published a few articles—”
“Yes, now I remember,” he said, one finger in the air, as if to make time pause while he thought. “You had one in the Journal of Early Writing on triconsonantal root signs, didn’t you?”
I can hardly tell you, Lotte, what it is like to have someone recognize your work. And in such an obscure little journal, too! It would be one thing if I had published something noteworthy in the Draconean Philological Review or a prestigious series like that—but he has read what I wrote! And he said it was insightful!
I will not attempt to transcribe the rest of the conversation; the truth is, I hardly remember it. We stood in the aisle talking until some bent old twig came and scowled at us for being noisy; then we went out into the foyer, where there are some sofas, and sat and talked some more. I have never got along so famously with anyone so fast. I think it is the pleasure of meeting someone who not only cares about the same things as I do, but seems to be enjoying my company at the same time. We sat on the same couch, angled to face one another, and after a while I draped my arm along the back of it; at one point his own hand came to rest on the back of mine—just a light touch, and then he moved it. Lotte, I believe I have now observed that act known as “flirting” in the wild, and I enjoyed it a good deal more than I expected to.
Aaron Mr. Mornett had to go before Grandmama was done, because she was having a good old row with Lord Wishert. I didn’t go back into the library, but sat there in the foyer and reviewed the whole thing in my mind several times over, basking in a warm little glow, until she came downstairs again.
And that’s when things went wrong.
Grandmama apologized for keeping me waiting, and I told her I didn’t mind, because I’d met a very nice young man. But her absentminded noises of approval went away with a crack when I told her his name.
“Aaron Mornett?” she said, rearing up like a dragon. “Oh, Audrey. I am so sorry for abandoning you to him.”
“Sorry?” I echoed, taken aback. “But he was lovely.”
“He may look lovely,” she said darkly, “but he is not company I can recommend to you.”
I have never heard her sound so much like—well, like a disapproving old grandmother. I said, “Why? Is he a gambler, or a drunkard, or a lecher?”
Grandmama stopped in the middle of the outside steps and delivered the most scathing condemnation I think she is capable of: “He is not a reputable scholar.”
I couldn’t have been more shocked if she’d slapped me across the face. “But—he’s a Fellow!”
“Come now, Audrey; you know better than that.” Grandmama gestured up at the imposing facade of the Colloquium. “Yes, in theory the Colloquium exists to recognize and support brilliant scholarship. But people also get in for political reasons, or because they have friends in the society, or some other reason that has nothing to do with their work. And besides that, your Mr. Mornett is a Calderite.”
She said the word as if I ought to know it, but I don’t think I’d ever heard it before. “And what is that?” I demanded, folding my arms.
“Samuel Calder was a preacher in Gostershire, before you were born. He held that the Downfall of Draconean civilization was a sign that the Lord had cast them out, like He cast Apra and Atzam out of the Garden. Therefore, it follows that they have no claim on this world any longer.” Grandmama looked like she wanted to spit. “Some of his adherents took his ideas to their worst extreme, and now refer to themselves as Hadamists—I presume that at least is a name you recognize? They believe that Draconeans ought to be exterminated, finishing what the Downfall started and leaving humans in sole possession of the world.
“Those who kept closer to his original ideas are known as Calderites—but do not mistake their moderation for anything you would find acceptable. They merely say that the Draconeans should only occupy such land as humankind deigns to grant them: the Sanctuary of Wings, and nowhere else. And more in the manner of a game preserve than a sovereign nation.”
Of course I’m familiar with that debate. There are so few Draconeans, and even fewer of them outside the Sanctuary; most people have never met one, so it’s easy for them to imagine all kinds of foolish things. They hear “Draconean” and think of the Anevrai, lurid tales of human sacrifice and all that. But Aaron Mornett is far too intelligent to let such ignorance colour his views, and I told Grandmama as much.
She sniffed and continued down the stairs to the street. “Trust me, Audrey. You’ll be happier staying away from him.”
And that, as far as she was concerned, was that. But I am not convinced [. . .]
29 SEMINIS
Dearest Lotte,
I don’t know if it’s coincidence or design, but I have been seeing Mr. Mornett rather frequently since our encounter at the Colloqium.
I haven’t had the nerve to ask him about the things Grandmama said—I don’t want to drive him off. Whatever Grandmama thinks of his scholarship, I can’t cast any aspersions on his mind; every conversation with him is exhilarating. I constantly feel as if I need to bring every brain cell I have to bear just to keep up with him, and afterward I would swear my skull is packed full of new ones, like a muscle growing with use. With us there is no silly gossip about Society or idle talk about the weather; it is all ancient texts, archaeology, history, the things we both care about.
And he doesn’t hate Draconeans, whatever Grandmama claims. He’s never met any, but he listened with perfect courtesy when I told him about Kudshayn and the others I know. Perhaps after the Season ends I can make arrangements for him to come to Yelang or Vidwatha and get to know a few [. . .]
12 FLORIS
[. . .] Honestly, Aaron makes plenty of good arguments. Kudshayn’s health is bad because his mother pushed her offspring into an unsuitable environment. Shouldn’t we be urging them to stay where they’ll be safe, rather than letting them take such risks? The Draconeans have been living in the Sanctuary for ages, and they’re very well adapted to that climate. It will take generations before any of them can hope to prosper in southern Anthiope. And that’s generations of failed hatchings and detrimental mutations.