Page 35 of Enchanted Net
There, that was a plan. It was even a suitably considered plan. Lucas would approve of him thinking through the various potential outcomes. Vitus did not think Thessaly would dismiss him out of hand. For one thing, she was a duellist; she was presumably comfortable working within the confines of a set of agreements within the moment. For another, she was born to the sort of family that made their agreements carefully and precisely. But also a family who also knew what they did and did not include the way they knew where their foot or hand was.
Vitus was not so confident there, but he had his own skills, of articulating desire into something that could be scribed in stone and brought to life with enchantment. He had to remember those gifts and the knowledge he had didn’t go fleeing into the night, useless and far away, just because this was a different sort of magic. He had time, too. Her situation was known, his situation was known, both more liminal than they would be in a few months. Well, he hoped a few months for him, with the establishment of his own business, and after her wedding festivities were well over for her.
He could therefore enjoy what she felt fit to offer, conversation and magical theory, and perhaps a few more dances. It was for her to set the pace, and he would follow. In that context, Vitus could soothe himself, perhaps, with some tales of the troubadours and courtly love. Mama had insisted he learn enough of the language involved to please Father’s Grand-mère, who liked the old customs. There, now he had a decision and a path forward, and he could sleep.
When he woke again, it was past ten. Their maid had left a tray for him, under stasis, with eggs and toast and jam, and Vitus ate, scanning the paper for the day’s news. He thumbed through, checking the schedule for the Faire’s events, and writing out those parts he was most interested in. That done, he dressed and packed a satchel for the day. He had no obligations at the Faire, not today, but it was a good time to get his bearings. He’d missed last year’s, of course, and things were always moved around.
And he was a sensible man who wanted to scout out this year’s culinary treats so he could decide where best to spend his coins. There was always fierce competition when it came to baked goods, but people often came up with particular designs or works of spun sugar, or some such, that were worth considering. Besides, they often gave some hints about trends in colour or fashion that mattered to Vitus and his work.
“Mama, I’m off. Shall I bring you anything home?” His mother was settled in the parlour, her knitting in her hands.
“Information about what is on offer. Did you sleep well?” She peered up at him. “Well enough, then. You were back late.”
“Did I wake you? I’m terribly sorry. Yes, I did. I don’t think I’ll be late tonight. I should be back for supper.” He bent to kiss her on the forehead. “Information it is, and as much of the gossip as I can gather.” Then he was out the door, into the sunlight, and down the road to the portal again.
When he came out on the other end, the Faire was already in full swing. It had started the night before with a feast and dancing, while the Council rites went on far more formally elsewhere. He’d never seen that. It was intended more for the working class of Albion, in their many forms. Farmers and fisherman, of course, crafters and crofters and those servants who could get leave, anyone who could get a night off. From here, it’d be ten days of festivities, allowing anyone with a half-day off or more to get some time at the Faire.
Vitus wove through the crowds, agreeably nodding here and there to people he knew. It was too loud and too chaotic for much actual conversation, at least along the main paths. And besides, Vitus always thought the people who blocked the path - terribly easy to do, for women in bustles - were being a trifle rude. It made things difficult not only for the people behind them but also for the stalls around where they stopped.
He paid for a map from one newsboy stationed to sell the things, as well as the evening paper when that had been printed. That let him plan his day. Vitus intended to circle through all the booths, to see who was where, and then check the schedules for the landed estates, to see who he particularly wanted to see. He, fortunately, could come out as many days as he needed. Though for the sake of his feet and his shoes, he was hoping it would be more on the order of three or four than all ten.
It did decidedly require some planning. Two hours later, he’d done his initial circuit and got his bearings. He retreated to the seats near one of the outdoor show rings to sit and transcribe half a dozen scraps of paper into a proper schedule. Also, of course, to eat some of the first round of his selection of pastries. Vitus had made good choices, one with a marmalade glaze, a lardy cake, and a Bakewell tart. He kept the marmalade to bring back to his mother, and the Bakewell tart for Papa, and the lardy cake was scrumptious. They’d started winning prizes, that stand, five years ago, and their cakes seemed to get better every year.
The ring was, when he looked up, full of what looked like the initial rounds of sheep. They were being led out into the ring, around, then into place, over and over again. An announcer was explaining some of what was going on, though, of course, it was full of specialist terms that Vitus did not know. Horses he could do, and some things about cows, but sheep. Well, he just enjoyed looking at sheep.
Checking his watch, it was nearly three, and he stood, intending to make another pass. Now he had a better idea of his specific schedule for conversations, he could check what lectures might be on offer. They set up a large barn as a lecture hall. It was an excellent chance to learn about other specialities, or perhaps find a shared topic for a later conversation.
It wasn’t until he was circling back to the main paths through the Faire, that he heard the newsboys. “Council member dead! More in the evening paper.” He glanced around, focusing on the boy nearest him, who was waving a slip of paper, certainly printed in a hurry. He went over, pulling out a coin for it.
“What’s the news, boy?”
The boy thrust the somewhat roughly printed page at him, pocketed the coin. “Council M’mber Metaia Powell.”
Vitus felt the ground drop away from him. The boy immediately turned away, waving his arm, shouting, and Vitus retreated, automatically back toward the portal, before stepping out of the line of the crowds. He’d just seen her last night, alive and well. Shining, in fact, other than whatever her worries might have been about her niece.
And Thessaly, Thessaly must be heartbroken. Vitus assumed she must know if it was going to be in the paper. Someone must have told her. Surely, before it was shouted all over the Faire. The slip of paper had no real details - those would come in the evening paper, whatever they’d been able to get to press in time. Just that she’d been found dead at her home in Wales, that the Guard was on site, and that enquiries were ongoing.
Of course, she was a Council Member. Anything that happened to the twenty-one of them was automatically news and major news at that. The thought crossed his mind - to be shoved away immediately out of human decency - that it would mean a Council challenge inside a few months, and that would bring him opportunities. That was for later. Now, he dithered about whether to go home and talk to his parents, or to do something else. The news would be raging along Club Row in Trellech. But he wasn’t at all sure he could cope with people picking it apart and forgetting there were people grieving and hurting, and someone dead.
He was saved from dithering forever by the arrival of the papers from Trellech, smack at six in the evening. He followed the carter to the newsboy, bought the edition. They didn’t get the evening paper at home. It didn’t arrive until after eight, far too late to be useful. Then Vitus retreated out of the line of people again, to read it. The front page had more to say, but not a great deal more information. It said that Council Head Rowan would have a longer statement in tomorrow morning’s paper, but that she grieved with the Council Member’s family.
There was a brief bio, the sort of thing the Trellech Moon kept handy for any newsworthy event, all the sketched lines of someone’s life. Vitus found his mind filling in the commentary after each sentence. Council Member Powell had been born into the well-known Powell family. Yes, those Powells. She had gone to Schola, as you’d expect. She’d been in Seal House, which wasn’t nearly as expected. Then it laid out her specialty in illusion work, especially illusions meant for long-term use, like around Silence-warded villages and estates. And naturally it gave a précis of her time on the Council.
There was no funeral notice yet, but there was a note that arrangements would be announced in tomorrow’s paper, and that donations to the Temple of Healing were welcome. That was also entirely usual, if one didn’t want to be entirely inundated with flowers. Or more importantly, at that political level, if one didn’t want to reveal one’s home address to everyone and their sister.
It was all what Vitus expected, and he knew that was wrong. He didn’t know what was wrong, or what it meant. Or even if he’d ever find out. For now, though, he’d go home and tell his parents. Then he’d figure out what, if anything, he could reasonably write to Thessaly in this situation that would be simultaneously kind and also appropriate if - when - someone else read it.
Chapter27
JUNE 21ST IN THE LATE AFTERNOON
Thessaly sat there, her hands folded, not at all sure where to look or what to do, certainly not what to say. After they’d waited in the library at Bryn Glas for half an hour, one of the Guards escorted them home. Some part of her knew that meant they’d be searching the house, but as they were leaving, she’d seen the local Lord - Caderyn Prichard - out by the portal. That meant they could test people under the truth magic. Then she’d seen Mrs Collins, the housekeeper, come through.
The combination meant that they could search more gently. Aunt Metaia had explained that, years ago, that the truth magics needed someone able to cast them in the first place, and then to ask the right questions. Lord Prichard was skilled, magically, he could do the basic truth charms on the fly if he needed to. Enough that they could be sure Mrs Collins had no part of whatever had happened, and then she could walk them through the house. At least things would be put back properly, after. Where they ought to be.
Once they’d got back to their own home, the Guard had stayed with them. Mama had told Thessaly to go change, and Thessaly hadn’t needed to be told that it should be her mourning dress. Mama made the habit of always having one in her wardrobe, just in case, updated every year for fit and a little for style. Thessaly had only worn hers twice. Both times had been actual funerals in the extended family. They had been the sort of deaths that people had seen coming for months, if not years, in people who had had long and good lives.
Her maid laced her into the dress, made of a fine-woven wool, that would feel stifling soon. It had almost nothing in the way of trim, but that at least meant she was not dealing with the stubborn, unyielding nature of crepe. She added a single jet pendant, one that had come down to her from Grandmama. Then she descended the stairs to find Mama and Father in the parlour.
