Simeon pursed his lips. “He may be . . . but generosity of that sort is not what I would expect from any friend of Mrs. Kefford’s. She may be a benefactor of the museum, but she uses her money to buy influence and burnish her husband’s reputation, not to add valuable materials to our collection.” He considered it for a time, then shook his head. “Perhaps he is trying to make amends for what you learned at Lady Plimmer’s. On the third hand—”
“On the third hand,” I said, “he was spying on me. Or rather, having his niece do it.”
“That’s not all.” Simeon folded his hands over the head of his cane, looking troubled again. “I mentioned that he was full of praise for your work. When I brought up publication, he was very energetic in saying that you and Kudshayn would get full honours for the translation—so I don’t think you need fear that he is going to attempt to take credit, or pass it off as Mornett’s effort, or anything in that vein. But have you noticed the hole in what I have said?”
Trust Simeon to turn it into an intellectual puzzle. When I reviewed his words, though, I immediately saw what he meant. “Praise for my work. Not for Kudshayn’s.”
“Indeed. And after we discussed publication, he went right back to talking about you only. That is not, I think, the behaviour of a man who is in the process of overcoming his prejudices, and sincerely striving to do better.”
I agree with Simeon—but whose behaviour is it? That of a man who cannot bring himself to value a Draconean’s work, but wants to make certain everyone knows that work is his? I could see Gleinleigh doing that if he believed the translation would be terrible . . . but if he thinks we’re going to be met with ridicule when we publish, he’s going to be sorely disappointed. I am proud of what we’ve done, and although our fellow scholars will quibble with it (because scholars live to quibble), neither of us will be embarrassed to show our face in public afterward.
But that was only the start of my day, and by far the better part of it.
Simeon and I kept talking, until I noticed that if we didn’t leave soon, we were going to be late for the auction. So I ran downstairs to hail a cab while Simeon locked up his office, and even with that, we arrived at Emmerson’s with only a few minutes to spare.
The auction house was very full, which Simeon didn’t find at all surprising. “Normally a sale like this one would not be very significant,” he said, “as there are no artifacts of major importance or beauty in the catalogue. But with the congress coming up . . .”
I’ve heard that phrase a hundred times since arriving in Falchester. (Which is an achievement, given how few people I’ve spoken to outside my own family.) But it’s only to be expected, when even rural gentry like Lady Plimmer are taking pains to educate themselves on the subject; here in Falchester, of course it’s the main topic of conversation. And Draconean motifs are all the rage once more in decoration, so naturally everyone is stampeding to buy anything they can, and the wealthier ones want the genuine artifact.
Simeon went into the hall ahead of me to find seats while I registered us both and collected our bidding paddles. And then, just before I could go in, I heard an all-too-familiar voice say, “Hello again, Audrey.”
He was lounging against one of the columns with his hands in his pockets. Lying in wait for me? I can’t be sure. But there are times when I regret not being raised by an old-fashioned family—somebody like Lady Plimmer—because I don’t have the knack for being properly frosty. I did my best, though. I drew myself up very straight and said, “You have lost the right to be so familiar with me, sir.”
“Miss Camherst, then.” Damn him for sounding amused. Mornett pushed off from the column and sauntered toward me, hands still in his pockets, which for some reason felt even more invasive than if he had taken them out. “Here for something in particular? I had a look at the lots earlier, and can think of one that might catch your eye. You never know what treasures are waiting to be found.”
I wish it were practical to haul around a gramophone recording device, so I could play back statements like that and pick over them for clues. But so much of it is in the body language as well, the posture and the cast of the eyes: was he deliberately hinting at something? It would be just like him to play with me in such a fashion.
Whether he was or not, I was too flustered to respond well. If I’d had any sense I would have anticipated that Aaron Mornett might be there and prepared something cutting to say, but instead all I said was, “The auction will begin any moment now. I’m going inside.”
“The interesting things are all later in the catalogue,” he said indifferently, but bowed me toward the door. I walked as fast as I could to get there ahead of him, so that he would not have a chance to hold it for me. He caught its edge before I could let it swing shut in his face, though, and followed me in.
At least the chairs Simeon had found were nearly at the back of the hall. Mornett passed me as I sat down, with one last insinuating smile, and took an empty chair about three rows farther up, which meant I would not have to endure the whole auction knowing he was staring at the back of my head. But then I nearly swallowed my tongue when I realized the woman holding that chair empty for him was Mrs. Kefford!
He’s worked with her for some time now, of course. Who else could someone like her get to translate her acquisitions? But on the heels of everything else, it felt like Mornett was waving a red flag in front of me, flaunting . . . I don’t even know what, because I don’t know what they’re doing. I’m only sure there must be something.
I tried to put it out of my mind for the time being. Simeon had seen Mornett; he whispered to me, “Are you all right?” and I assured him I was. I don’t think he believed me, but the middle of the auction house was hardly the place to have that conversation, so we had to hush and attend to the sales.
Not that I was really attending. Instead I paged through Simeon’s copy of the catalogue, wondering what Mornett might have been hinting at. One of the inscribed pieces? They really weren’t very interesting; the only possibility was the basalt fragment, but stele usually just have royal declarations or boasts about how so-and-so won a great victory in battle. What reason could I have to be interested in that?
With no clues forthcoming from the catalogue, I resolved to watch him instead. His hair is still as casual as ever, brushed into place but no more than that, and every so often he turned to murmur something to Mrs. Kefford, or she to him. I tried valiantly to read their lips, but without much luck, until Simeon nudged me and pointed out that I was very obviously staring. Then I tried to stop, but without much luck at that, either. (I hope he could feel me glaring holes in the back of his head. Mornett, I mean, not Simeon.)
And then a large cylinder seal carved from hematite came up for bid, and Mornett raised his paddle.
I immediately looked to the catalogue, because I hadn’t really listened when the auctioneer described that lot. It was number 70, and described only as depicting “four Draconean figures in supplication to a god, extraordinarily well-carved.”
Four! Of course my thoughts immediately went to our four siblings, Samšin, Nahri, Imalkit, and Ektabr. The fifth—well, any time an ancient artifact depicts some impressive and unidentifiable figure we tend to label it a god, just as we call artifacts “ritual” when we have no real idea what they were used for. But with the journey to the underworld and back so fresh in my mind, I couldn’t help but wonder: did it depict the Crown of the Abyss? Or perhaps the Light of the World, except that is probably what all those sunbursts and winged sun discs depict, so that was less likely.