Page 20 of Apt to be Suspicious
“Oh, certainly a conversation with Bertram, but I’d like to do more there. Seeing as how he is a convenient example of someone who was properly and thoroughly renamed.” Edmund had known at least the outline of that story since he was fifteen or so. It was how Uncle Alexander and Papa had become allies, then friends, then family, in the ways they were.
Uncle Alexander had fundamentally renamed Master Hofler, so thoroughly that no one had been able to trace him magically. They’d only found that out for certain last year. One of the Nazi archives had turned up some of the paperwork about the attempts.
Edmund nodded now, that part would be highly educational, he was sure. “I’ll look forward to that. And whatever the bribe is to convince him to put up with the process.” He was certain there would be one, as Master Hofler was sometimes very much set on his dignity. Then he cleared his throat. “Perhaps I might do the last of my packing.”
“I have a book. I shall not hover over your shoulder. But when you need a hand moving your trunk, let me know. And I’ll keep an eye on the time.” That said, Uncle Alexander did extract a book from the pocket of his robe, and leaned back to read it. Edmund went to go pack up his last things. There were the books he’d had out for his final studies, his small personal shrine to Mercury, and such minor but necessary things as his toothbrush.
Chapter 14
Monday, March 29th near Pen’s home
Pen was sitting on one of the stone walls on the far side of the cemetery when she heard footsteps behind her. “Budge over, will you? I brought libations.”
Aunt Agnes was on her Easter holidays, and thus around. She’d come home Friday evening. Of course, Saturday and Sunday had been the usual flurry of parish obligations for Easter. Or cleaning and preparing, and then dealing with people. Now, on Easter Monday, there was a bit of relaxation, and no need to hurry about anything. Pen slid over a bit, leaving space on the smooth top of the wall before the bit that had been buckled by a tree some years ago.
“Did Mrs Willoughby actually finish her story?” She was known for them. The woman had moved to town a few years ago. As far as Pen and her family could tell, she had a near endless procession of cousins, aunts, uncles, nephews, and nieces, all of whom came with tales.
“She did. I would not abandon your mother to that alone.” Aunt Agnes snorted. “She knows where I sleep. It should be quiet for a bit. And I wanted to catch up with you.”
Pen nodded. She was not, however, sure what to say. Instead, she sat on the wall, looking off across the fields beyond the cemetery. It was a lovely view, a bit of perfect British pastoral glory. Even if there wasn’t much specific beauty to see yet, this early in the spring. In a few months, the fields would have much more going on. There’d be the wildflowers in full bloom and the buzzing of bees and the various sounds of the birds. “Thinking, mostly.”
“Anything in particular?” Aunt Agnes considered. “Papa mentioned you were going off on a reading party in a fortnight?” She then handed over a flask of tea, satisfyingly warm.
Pen nodded. “A couple of other women. All reading maths or something close enough.” It would be fine. Probably better than fine, she got on well enough with all of them, though none of the others were magical. They all had similar enough interests not to find each other’s particular passions too tedious. “Two weeks in the Lake Country, one of them has a family house. It’s not really the best season for it, but the long vac is a different sort of problem.”
“It is.” Aunt Agnes had been at Somerville in her own time. She understood that. “No new luck with tutoring?”
Pen shook her head. “No. My tutor’s fine, it’s just...” She cut off there.
“Have you given any thought to what you want to do after? I was wondering if you were considering teaching, I could keep my ear open for any positions. We get to hear about them, people in the field. Or I gather your Professor Acharya is thinking of retiring in a year or two. Martha saw the note in the Trellech Moon that they’re particularly encouraging fellows in maths next year or the one after.” People who might reasonably be considered as replacements, then. Being a fellow at Schola was a good way both to learn a great deal and to see what teaching was like.
That was a change of an era at Schola. Professor Acharya had been teaching maths there since well before Pen had been born. And she’d been deputy head for decades, too. That had some temptation to it. Being back at Schola would be wonderful, nestled in a space with magic, with time to work on her own research. Not that Pen had any illusions about how much time and energy teaching took. She’d heard more than enough from Aunt Agnes. But there would be some time for herself.
She looked up. “Maybe. I won’t rule it out. But to be honest, Aunt Agnes, my heart’s not in teaching. And probably it should be, to be a good teacher.”
“The heart certainly helps.” Aunt Agnes considered, giving the topic space. That was one thing Pen appreciated about her aunt. Things weren’t rushed. They might move quickly, when needs must, but when there wasn’t that pressure, Aunt Agnes took her time. Finally, without looking directly at Pen, she asked, “Where do you find your heart is?”
“I want to solve complicated problems. Puzzles that do things.” Pen gestured a little helplessly with her left hand. “There’s a lot of drudgery in that, I know that. I’ve learned that already. But something that matters in the end.”
Aunt Agnes nodded once. Pen could see it out of the corner of her eye. “I suppose you’re named for the patient resolution of problems, in one sense.”
“Penelope?” Pen tilted her head. “Mum and Dad have never explained the name.”
“Oh, that was Mama.” Pen’s grandmother had delighted in the name of Iphigenia. Despite it, she’d had a long and glorious life as matriarch of her family, certainly not sacrificed in her youth. “She was most insistent on it. And Papa grumbled— it’s not at all biblical, of course. But you know how he was with Mama. He could never deny her anything she wanted. Your parents thought it was a fine name, if a trifle long for ordinary use.” Pen had been Pen, just the one syllable, for short, for as long as she could remember. Vastly preferable to Penny. “Certainly better than any of the martyrs.”
“Many of whom were also very patient,” Pen agreed. “Though some names aren’t bad. And it goes well enough, magical or not.” Which was more than could be entirely said of Iphigenia.
“And that’s turned out to be handy, yes. More than we’d realised at the time.” When Pen had been born in the aftermath of the Great War, everyone had assumed there would be no such thing. Certainly no war that took Pen away to do secret work for years.
Seeing as her aunt was in an unusually confessional sort of mood, Pen ventured another question. She was unlikely to get a better chance for months, and she’d become increasingly curious about it. “Aunt Agnes, there’s something I’ve been wondering about. Did you have something to do with my war work? To start out?”
“Yes, and no.” Now Aunt Agnes was definitely staring off into the distance. “Let me think about how to put it. Why do you ask now?”
Pen shrugged. “I’ve been thinking about it. Some of it’s the, what’s the word. Impact. The filter that experience puts on the world.” Not that she could explain that any better without mentioning what she’d been doing. Since she couldn’t do that, most of it was a conversational dead end.
“I suppose that would particularly be a thing given the timing, wouldn’t it? As going up to Oxford was for me.”
“Oh, Oxford is too. Some of it fascinating, some of it irritating.” Pen shrugged, not wanting to get into that right now, especially if Aunt Agnes might be informative.
