“It doesn’t match up,” she said earnestly. “Or rather, parts of it do, but not all. And I know you said the geography is made up, but I don’t think all of it is.”
Kudshayn and I have speculated about that from time to time, but I didn’t realize Cora had been paying such close attention to what we said. Her argument—laid out with all the formidable logic of which she is capable—is that the evidence of plant and animal life mentioned in the earlier parts of the epic, the Genealogy Tablet in particular, suggests the ancient climate of central Anthiope more than southern.
That much is reasonable, and I’ve thought the same thing myself. But then her article goes on to say that the volcano most likely to be responsible for the “loss of the sun” in the Darkness Tablet is also in central Anthiope—Mt. Dezhnie in Vystrana—citing a Dr. Ralph Stanyard as her source for this declaration. Therefore (her argument goes), it makes no sense that the Worms Tablet places “the mountain that ate the sun” in the southern part of the continent, in the lands of the mu: it must have been in the homeland of the Anevrai themselves. Therefore, human beings cannot be held responsible for that event—always presuming that it were possible to cause a volcanic eruption, which to the best of the article’s author’s knowledge it is not.
She stood patiently while I read through it. When I was done, the first thing I could think to say was, “Who on earth is Dr. Stanyard?”
“The geologist you told me to write to,” she said. “I mean, you didn’t actually tell me, you just hinted very pointedly, and you didn’t specify him; I had to write some letters first to even find a suitable geologist. Don’t you remember?”
“Yes—but I had no idea you’d gotten anything back, much less an actual answer!”
Cora stood very still, thinking back. “Oh,” she said. “Of course. I heard back while you were in Falchester and not talking to me, so I didn’t say anything. And then you started talking to me again, but by then I’d forgotten that I hadn’t told you about his letter.”
I sighed and rubbed my face with my hands. “Thank you, Cora. When all of this is done, I’ll be happy to assist you with the article.” (There were places in her draft where she could not remember or look up the things Kudshayn and I had said about geographical clues in the epic; she had left notes to herself that she should consult with me.)
Honesty prompted me to add, “I don’t know if it will do any good for the Draconeans, though. Even if you’re correct—and I think you are—it just means the Anevrai scapegoated innocent people for the loss of the sun. Whether the war that resulted is an actual historical event or just a mythical tale, the fact remains that this is a story the Anevrai chose to tell. A story they took pride in.” We can’t know for sure how the epic fit into their society, especially when the tablets were torn out of their original archaeological context, but they’re much too finely made to be anything other than an honoured text.
Cora’s shoulders slumped, and I felt like a cad. “Oh, please don’t think—I’m grateful you did this, really I am. At least you’re trying to find a way to make things better, while I sit here doing something that will probably make them worse. And . . . I want you to know that whatever happens with the epic, I’m glad I had the chance to work with you.”
Her chin stayed down. “Truly?”
“Yes, truly. And if you ever want—”
I stopped myself, but I should have known better. Cora is a bulldog when it comes to unfinished thoughts; she won’t rest until she knows what you were going to say. “If I ever want what?”
If I weren’t so tired these days, worn to a thread by worry and work, I might not have thrown tact to the wind quite so comprehensively. As it is . . . “If you ever want to get away from your uncle, let me know. You shouldn’t have to go on living with a liar and a bigot if you don’t want to.”
Her shoulders tightened. “I’m grateful to him. For taking me in after my parents died. It was a railway accident. When I was ten.”
My heart thumped hard. I haven’t asked about her private life since she made it clear she wasn’t interested in discussing it with me; I have the feeling that her sharing it is as significant as Kudshayn telling me I could share the story of his clutch with her.
But the part about Gleinleigh . . . it had the sound of rote recitation. “That was good of your uncle,” I said, choosing my words with more care this time. “But being grateful to him and spending the rest of your life under his thumb aren’t the same thing. You can do something else with yourself.”
Almost inaudibly, Cora said, “I’m not fit for anything. I’m too awkward and no one else would want me.”
That hit like a slap of icy water. I came within an ace of flinging my arms around her before I remembered she wouldn’t like it. “The hell you are,” I said violently. “I need to introduce you to Simeon Cavall at the Tomphries. If I tell him about the work you’ve done for us here, he’ll weep with joy and then stick you in a windowless room to catalogue artifacts for the rest of your life.”
Then I reviewed what I’d just said. “Oh, Lord—I made it sound awful. I mean, only if you want to catalogue artifacts for the rest of your life. Otherwise you can do something else. Something more enjoyable.”
Cora thought it over. Then she said, “I would insist on windows.”
The little smile playing at the corner of her mouth lifted my spirits like nothing else lately, because it meant I’d made her feel better. I haven’t fixed everything—there’s no way I could—but at least I helped a little.
Which is about the only good thing that happened today. The epic is headed in dreadful directions, and a letter came from Grandmama this afternoon that has me wanting to crawl out of my skin with shame, because she’s right on every count.
I don’t know what Grandmama would do in my situation. Except be clever enough not to have gotten herself into it to begin with, and it’s far too late for that.
FROM THE NOTEBOOK OF CORA FITZARTHUR
Things I found in Uncle’s files that look relevant:
—a letter dated 18 Acinis, 5661, Mrs. Eveline Kefford to Marcus Fitzarthur, Lord Gleinleigh
Mrs. Kefford doesn’t mention tablets outright, but she says she’ll make arrangements for “the crate” to be loaded on board his ship next month (this was a few weeks before he left for Akhia), and cautions him to be careful, since “some of them” are already damaged, and “it won’t do us any good at all if they can’t be read.” That sounds like tablets to me.
She also reassures Uncle that “everything has been arranged with the permit office.” Unless that has something to do with boats, I think she means the Akhian office that issues permits for excavation, because I remember Uncle fretting about that before he left. I guess his fretting wasn’t necessary, since Mrs. Kefford says the man in charge of that is “one of ours.”
— a receipt dated 2 Nebulis, 5661, for 245 clay tablets purchased from Joseph Dorak for 3500 guineas
There were 271 tablets in the cache, including fragments. 245 plus 14 (for the epic) is 259; I’m not sure how many tablets I recognized as coming from Uncle’s collections when I packaged them up for the Carters. I should have made notes. There are seven in what they’ve catalogued so far, though. I bet there are twelve in total.