“It’s my business,” said Susan indignantly. “I didn’t ask for anyone else to pry into my family history.”
“Nor do we particularly want to,” said Thurston. “In fact, it’s quite inconvenient—”
“Extremely inconvenient and likely inconsequential,” interrupted Merrihew impatiently. “Where is that tea?”
“Coming!” called out Merlin. There was a confirming rattle of cups and saucers and silverware from the alcove, and some muttered conversation.
“As I was about to say,” continued Thurston. “We can help you find out who your father is . . . or was . . . far more swiftly than you could by yourself. Or even with anyone else’s help. Ah!”
He found his pipe in an inside coat pocket and pulled it out. With its curved stem and rather enormous bowl, it looked like he’d stolen it from a hobbit, thought Susan, who was a big fan of Tolkien. He started stuffing the pipe with what remained of the pinch of tobacco he’d been waving around.
“I hope you’re not planning to light that monstrosity,” said Merrihew as Thurston put the pipe in his mouth and started patting his waistcoat pockets again. “Remember? Strictly no smoking in the bookshops now. Not since last year. We all agreed.”
“Ah, yes,” grumbled Thurston. He removed the pipe and looked at it sadly.
“Tea’s up,” said Merlin.
Or, in fact, not Merlin. Someone who sounded like him, but with a lighter, smokier voice. Susan looked around and saw a young woman who looked very like Merlin as she’d first seen him, in a suit. In this case a pale blue pinstripe through navy blue, over a powder-blue silk shirt, with a half-undone tie striped in some school or university pattern that would mean something to those who cared about such things. She was a little more rounded than Merlin, and at least an inch taller, even though she wore brogues to his current Docs. A pale blue buttoned satin glove covered her right hand, which was holding a black-and-white-spotted porcelain cow creamer. Merlin, next to her, carried a silver tray with cups, saucers, sugar bowl, and spoons.
“You must be Vivien,” said Susan.
“Regrettably, my younger sibling and I do look alike,” replied Vivien, waiting a moment for Merlin to put the tray on the whisky barrel coffee table before she also set down the cow-shaped milk jug. She offered her hand to Susan, who stood up and shook it, before both sat down.
“Welcome to the New Bookshop,” said Vivien. “And thank you for coming to see us. I think we kind of missed that part, didn’t we?”
“Hmph,” snorted Merrihew, while Thurston waved his hand around in a gesture that might mean anything, but was perhaps agreement and also a kind of weak implied apology.
“Vivien got all the airs and graces in our extended family,” said Merlin. He sat down and picked up the teapot. “I’ll pour, shall I?”
“Very steady tea pourers, the left-handed, I will say that,” said Thurston.
“Thank you, Great-Uncle,” replied Merlin. “Milk, Susan? And su—”
“Biscuits,” interrupted Merrihew suddenly. She got up and headed for the alcove. “I specifically said biscuits were to be brought up.”
“Great-Aunt Merrihew is extremely fond of McVitie’s Jaffa Cakes,” said Merlin. “But as a matter of self-control, only eats them when we have visitors. Which, as I mentioned, is a very rare occurrence.”
“No sugar, thank you,” said Susan, taking her cup. She lifted the cup to admire the pattern. It wasn’t one she knew, a pink color scheme with floral panels, so she flipped over the saucer. But there was no maker’s mark. Ceramics were one of her interests, a field she thought she still might possibly pursue. Mrs. Lawrence had gently tried to channel Susan’s many artistic enthusiasms into a mere several or perhaps even two fields, but she had not succeeded.
“H and R Daniel,” said Vivien. “Eighteen thirty. Not the cow creamer, of course. M and S, I think, from about five minutes ago.”
“So, your father,” said Thurston, looking intently at Susan over the rim of his cup, which he then upended, draining it in a single draft. “Ahh! Now that’s a good cup. Too small, but good. Your father. What do you know?”
Susan looked at Merlin, who raised one eyebrow. Vivien leaned over and patted Susan on the shoulder.
“You are going to have our help whether you want it or not,” she said. “I’m sorry about that, but there are very good reasons for it. The Old World can be extraordinarily dangerous, and the greatest danger is not knowing what you’re dealing with. Please let us help you.”
Susan took a deep breath and they all sat silently for a few seconds. Thurston poured himself another cup of tea and muttered something about the superiority of mugs. Merrihew did not return from the alcove, from which a rustling sound was emanating, suggesting work upon a packet of biscuits.
“I don’t suppose I have a choice,” said Susan eventually. “But I hope . . . I hope I’m not going to get dragged into any more . . . weird stuff. I want to find out who my father is, work through the summer, and start my course. That’s all.”
“Well, one step at a time,” said Vivien, which was not at all comforting. “I know you went to see Frank Thringley as a possible parental candidate. What led you there, and what other information do you have?”
“Frank was the easy one,” said Susan. “He sent us postcards at Christmas, with his address and everything. But even before I saw him . . . and felt his strangeness . . . he was a long shot. Mum’s always been kind of dreamy; apparently she took a lot of acid back in the sixties, though she says she didn’t, and she said Frank was ‘one of her friends’ but in a slightly different tone than the others, if you know what I mean.”
“Your mother’s absentminded, rather dreamy?” asked Vivien. “Sort of disconnected from what’s going on?”
“It comes and goes,” replied Susan defensively. “But you could describe her that way.”
Merlin poured Susan more tea. Merrihew returned from the kitchen nook with a plate of her favorite chocolate-and-orange biscuits and sat down, balanced the plate on her knees, picked one up, and started eating.
Vivien and Thurston exchanged glances.
“What?” asked Susan.
“Well, the dreaminess, lass . . . for some mortals, this might be a sign of extended contact with the Old World. Time spent somewhere like the May Fair you were taken to, or with entities that are out of step with our world. Or even deliberate interference with her mind.”
“Oh,” replied Susan. She blinked back a tear, thinking of her mother’s difficulties. “I see. I suppose that makes sense. She always said she didn’t do drugs, though she hung out with lots of bands before I was born . . . the Stones and the Kinks and everyone, taking photographs—she’s a photographer, and a painter—I should have believed her. . . .”
“What are your other clues?” asked Merlin gently.
Susan took a tarnished silver gilt cigarette case out of one of the many pockets of her boiler suit. She carried it with her everywhere, since her mother had given it to her on her twelfth birthday “from your dad” but then denied having done so later, and said she’d never seen it before. The case was also convenient for carrying the other scant clues she’d gleaned over the years.