Page 31 of Claiming the Tower
“Not exactly. Or at least not, not in that letter?” Hereswith hesitated. “More as if she is laying out the line of thought and seeing whether I will bite.” She added, off-handedly. “Papa, in his younger years, enjoyed fishing, and I would go with him. It’s like that. Quiet and intent and you don’t know what will happen.”
“That, at least, seems entirely in keeping with her mien.” Marcus took a careful breath. “Do you want to?”
“I don’t have enough information to know what I want.” She glanced up. “No idea of the protocol of it, what the rules are. The actual rules, and the silly rules that will bite if they’re not tended to, and certainly not the nuances of how a given choice might be read. You know what I’m like about that.” Hereswith took a step back, so she could see all of him better, the way he was sitting. “What do you think?”
“I think—” Marcus’s hand was gripping the side of his desk, hard enough she could see the tension in his hand. “I think I will miss having you as a partner in diplomacy.”
It made her step back again, staring at him. “You can’t mean that.”
“If you decide to do this, you will give it your all. You always do. And if Magistra Ventry suggested it, even obliquely, she must think you stand a chance. She has far more information about what is involved than either of us does. That’s in the shape of what she’s said, making a path.” Marcus was, fundamentally, a ritualist. “Besides, I’d give you better odds than the names I’ve heard so far.”
“Who else?” Hereswith had not, in all honesty, really been keeping track. She had been distracted by Bess, and by the war, and by her work, not necessarily in precisely that order.
“Groves was going on at Wishton’s the other night about getting duelling robes made up. Tight breeches and all.” Marcus shook his head. “He has the body for it, but not the skills, I’m sure.”
“If it comes down to duelling, I certainly will not be successful,” Hereswith pointed out. “Not unless we are discussing duels conducted solely in floriography or perhaps unusual silverware utensils. I do know my way around an oyster fork or an aspic spoon.”
“Council Member Harrington wasn’t a duellist. He was a ritualist.” Marcus considered. “I could do a bit of research for you on that front. I know he published a handful of monographs.”
“The sort of thing the Owlery has in the library?” Hereswith asked, hopefully. “That might be useful, yes. And anything that looks like it’s actually got some solid foundation about the Challenges themselves.”
“Your wish is my borrowing list,” Marcus said, amiably. “I meant it, though. I think you’ve a good chance.” He took a breath, then went on, deliberately. “You can’t deny you’ve been increasingly unhappy. I don’t want to lose you, but you’re wasted on at least half of what we’re doing right now. I’m not at all certain that’s going to improve.” He stood up. “We have plans today and tomorrow. Go home after that and talk to your father and whoever else about it. I will find you books. You can think about putting your name in. The Challenge is what, end of August?”
“End of August.” Herewith took a breath. “Do you mind if I go home tonight, overnight?”
“No. After we’ve done the necessary.” He pushed himself upright. “Shall we go get ready for that?” He came closer. She offered her hand, and he made a slight bow over it. “Remember me fondly in the future.”
“You’re ridiculous.” Of course she was fond of him. He was a solid partner in what they did, in ways she appreciated more every time she had to deal with anyone else.
Late that night, after three hours of visible dining and conversational chatter with a dozen other people of the diplomatic set, Hereswith had made her way back to Verdant Court. She wasn’t sure if Bess would still be up, but the light was on in the study. Hereswith knocked lightly on the door. “Bess?”
“I didn’t expect you tonight.” Bess looked at her. “Is there anything wrong?”
“Could you make tea while I change? There’s something I’d like to talk out with you.” Bess nodded and Hereswith went into the bedroom. She had to fumble and contort herself and use three charms to manage this dress, but she didn’t want to bother any of the maids to come up. Or Bess. After a little of wriggling, she got herself out of the various layers and into a nightgown and her favourite wrap. It felt better to be home for this, at least. She’d made the right choice coming back, even if it meant an early morning tomorrow and more fuss.
Once she came into the sitting room, Bess had added a log to the fire, there was tea in the pot, and Bess on the sofa. Hereswith sat, took a cup of tea, and then said, not quite looking at Bess. “Magistra Ventry sent me a note today. She did not quite come out and say it in so many words. But she implied that if I wished to make a Challenge for the Council, she would be of assistance.”
Bess blinked several times. “Why?”
“I wish I knew!” Here, with Bess, Hereswith could let all of her emotions show, including the ones she wouldn’t have shared with Marcus. Some of them he wouldn’t understand, for one thing. Others, he couldn’t do anything about. “I’m entirely turned around about it. And there’s so much I don’t know about it that matters. What the protocol is for it, what’s expected. Both the, the visible parts. With everyone watching. Then, whatever happens in the Challenge itself. I’m certain I won’t know about that before— if— I do it.”
“But you want to.” Bess had picked up on that slip of words, that entirely uncharacteristic slip.
Hereswith let out a slow breath, peering up over the rim of her teacup. “Tell me it’s a horrible idea.”
“It isn’t.” Bess lifted a finger, a sign she was thinking. “I won’t lie to you about something like that. Tell me more about what you think. Why you think it’s a horrible idea.”
The thing of it was, there wasn’t a logical reason. People like her didn’t do things like this. Which might be that people like her weren’t ambitious like that, or had better sense than to wander into a complex magic no one understood. She did not know what Papa or her brothers would say. And then there was the lurking sand under her feet, something not quite stable enough to be sure of. She talked, laying it out, going in circles that spun in and out around the same half dozen points. Finally, she ran down to a stop.
Bess considered, took the teacup out of her hands, poured her more, added a lump of sugar, and then handed it back. “Your voice is going hoarse. Can’t have that, you’ll need it in good working order. You apprenticed in Incantation, yes?”
“Yes.” Hereswith wasn’t certain where Bess was going with this.
“And Magistra Ventry?”
“Incantation.” Hereswith knew that as well as any other list of notable figures. The Council Members were easier than most, actually, since they had a public face and the papers laid it out at regular intervals. “Theseus Harrington was a ritualist, though. Marcus was looking for more about his work.”
“It’s not a one-to-one replacement, though. Or at least that wasn’t my impression? It’s not as if one ritualist dies or retires, and there’s another.” Bess cocked her head. “And Incantation and Ritual are dancing partners, that’s what my mother said. The skills complement each other.”
