Page 17 of Apt to be Suspicious
“I had been thinking that if this were something that came up in Albion— at the Council rites, at the Midsummer Faire, I’d have allies. Ursula, Anthony, several others of my own generation. I kept stopping and staring at some discussions in Homer, the way various people react to Odysseus.”
“The Iliad or the Odyssey, more?” Uncle Alexander settled back down.
“The way people talk about Odysseus when Telemachus goes in search of news. Menelaus particularly, the way he talks about how close they were. Certainly allies, but I have to wonder how much that went both ways, for one. But then I look at, oh, Achilles and Patroclus. The way they know each other so well. I keep thinking about what Ursula might do in this situation, and— “ He shrugged. “I want that. Anthony’s also excellent, but he has the Guard oath.”
Uncle Alexander raised an eyebrow and had the sort of expression that made it clear it was good he’d not been drinking. After a silence, he said, his voice tighter than usual. “May I ask which of you is Achilles in this metaphor?”
“I’m the better duellist,” Edmund said promptly, but then truth compelled him to add, “A fair bit of that is because Ursula decided not to focus there, however.”
It amused Uncle Alexander, at least. “She has chosen other ground than the salle, yes. Ask her sometime about that, if you haven’t. She has a dozen interesting arguments about it. Mostly that it is tricky for a woman to be known as a duellist and also for the social machinations inherent in the rest of it. She has noted not having your father’s knack for being underestimated in multiple areas at once.”
Edmund chuckled. “Well, I certainly prefer her to be on my side rather than go against her. But you see what I’m gesturing at, maybe? And I don’t have that here. Oh, I’m learning a lot at Oxford. But I miss the collaboration of it, of solving something that needs changing, with other people who care about the same thing.”
Uncle Alexander nodded. “I know the feeling. Both of doing it myself, because there was no one else to ask, and of finding company. Your father and mother, and then a number of others.” Then he took a deliberate sip of his tea.
Edmund waited because he was fairly sure there would be more coming. Uncle Alexander set down his cup, then said, “No, that’s out of order. I learned some of it by teaching Isembard and Perry. And then Thesan managed to create a space where collaboration was more natural than prickly self-protection, at least on a limited scope of topics. Your parents followed. And then Cyrus and Mabyn, in far more generous forms than I’d permitted when I was younger.” He laid out the people like the bright stars they were, the particularly notable constellations of his world.
Uncle Alexander lifted his tea again, but before drinking from it, he added, “I think this is a particular season of your life. What is true here and now will not be the case once you go down from Oxford. But having the skills to work on your own might come in useful in the years to come.”
Edmund could not argue with any of that and did not want to. He nodded. “Will you let me know if you have suggestions?”
“Certainly. Begin by observing, of course. Sometimes the patterns show themselves in unexpected ways. And then— you’ve heard the stories about how your father and I began working together— having a fresh eye for something can help. Framed properly, it’s amazing what a little genuine interest can get you, or the right turn of phrase. That part is relevant to both your Ritual and Naming training. Ursula does it via Incantation. She was reading something— last week? I forget now. It might be of interest. I’ll get her to forward a copy.”
“Thank you, Uncle Alexander. I appreciate all of it. Even the additions to my reading list, which is ever growing larger.” Edmund was about to say more, then he suddenly yawned. “I beg pardon.”
“No, no. You exerted yourself substantially this afternoon. I will take my leave, shall I, and we’ll pick up with discussion on Monday. Anything you need to send along with me besides the hamper and dishes?”
Edmund shook his head, standing to see Uncle Alexander out as far as the street. He came back inside, taking enough time to finish the meal before tidying up the dishes and washing them. Only then did he permit himself to close up the flat for the night and prepare for bed. It was still absurdly early, but he was in fact exhausted, and he’d likely wake early. His studies would wait for him.
Chapter 12
Friday, March 4th
Pen was not happy to be awake at three in the morning. Something had woken her, and she did not know what. It wasn’t as if there was anyone moving terribly near her. When she looked out the window, however, she could see a figure cutting across the quad. Any other college at Oxford, Pen might have expected some figure of authority to appear from nowhere— walking on the grass was commonly forbidden to such as students. Somerville permitted it, but certainly not at three in the morning.
The light was awful— they were getting on toward the new moon— with just a few lamps around the edge of the quad for safety. She couldn’t get a look at who it was, other than undeniably female in form, and wearing what was likely a dress. The fabric was more substantial than a commoners' gown. And the sleeves, even in a moving silhouette, were wrong for the other academic gowns that might be plausible.
It made her sit on the bed and keep watching until that shadowy figure disappeared, to what was probably a back window. They were brave to come through the quad and not round the back. But no, wait. Pen had heard something about them taking steps to make it harder to climb the wall there. Of course, women had it harder, since they were likely wearing both shoes unsuited for climbing a wall and skirts likely to catch on things.
The whole matter wasn’t really any of Pen’s concern. It was nothing to her if a woman came home late from an evening with her young man. It was certainly far more risk than Pen would ever take, even if she’d had a young man to take it with. Even if she’d known who it was, it wasn’t like she’d have reported them. If the woman made it in without notice, well, that was fine.
It did grate on Pen how the women were treated so differently from men. She’d had five years at Schola, where the differences were minimal. Oh, they got different lectures from Matron about various health matters and the relevant charms. And certainly, there were charms and protections that meant boys and girls had little chance of getting privacy without going to some lengths. A long walk down to the beach and hoping none of the merfolk were around, for example. It made it simpler to do whatever was permitted in more visible places. Not that Pen had bothered with that, either.
And at Bletchley, the constant shift considerations, the lack of privacy at billets, and so on had made matters complex. But there, women were treated sufficiently as equals. Certainly Pen knew of a dozen marriages that had begun there. She had many more examples of men and women walking out together, or going to one of the regular weekly dances, or many other activities. There had been a separation, and a number of people had an eye on the younger women in particular. But it wasn’t as extreme as Oxford was.
Here, that extremity was also unfair. A man out overnight risked a fine and a scolding, the stern disapproval of whoever caught him or had to deal with it. The woman might well be sent down. And it wasn’t as if smuggling a man into the woman’s rooms was any better than her being out. That frustrated Pen no end, the way they were treated differently. All here were in search of learning and knowledge, but some had entirely different landscapes to dwell in. Different bases of numbers, she sometimes thought, as if the women were working in base seven or some such, and the men in base ten.
Pen’s irritation kept her up until four at least, despite her best efforts. When she was woken by Emily, the staircase scout, at half-eight, she grumbled but got up. It wasn’t as though she could lounge about. She had maths to do. And a lecture to attend that afternoon. Two of them, in fact. There was one at the Academy at two that seemed promising, before Professor Born’s at five.
Thus it was that she came into the JCR at the Academy at half three after the last discussion following the lecture had cleared out. There she found Edmund Carillon stretched out on one sofa. Oh, he didn’t have his feet up, but he was leaning with his back against the far arm, foot twisted under his other leg, looking remarkably languid. Even his commoners’ gown looked good, though she was close enough to get a better look than she had before. She strongly suspected it had been handed down from some relative, as it was of decidedly sturdier black cotton than other people wore.
She could not, annoyingly, get that thought about the corona out of her head now she’d seen it. His hair was golden, like something out of a properly cast opera or dramatic production. He looked every bit the noble young hero, down to the way he was dressed. If the modern hero dressed in a beautifully turned out suit, that was. With, of course, a tie with the linked keys of the Exeter crest. Men had their ways of signalling their associations, none of them terribly subtle.
“Afternoon.” Pen tried not to sound grudging, but she certainly felt it.
“There’s mint in the urn if you want some. Still warm.” Carillon’s voice was amiable. He flicked the paper he was holding, and Pen suspected it was the crossword again.
“Thanks.” Pen knew how to have manners. And more to the point, if Mum found out she’d been rude, Pen would never hear the end of it. That was the thing. Basic human decency included being civil. Especially when there was nothing actually wrong with what he’d done. “Did you go to the lecture earlier?”
