Page 23 of Apt to be Suspicious
“Yes, sir. I have a lot of reading to do, but now it’s more about the history and art and architecture. There’s a decent chance I should be able to do more with philology proper. And of course the apprenticeships.” Both of them, the one they talked about in Ritual, and the one that was private to the family and a few close friends, in Naming.
“With Mercury’s luck, you’ll have years yet to learn what Alexander can teach you.” Papa glanced instinctively over his shoulder and back toward Ytene. “It’s doing him a great deal of good to share with you, though. He comes home from your tutorials glowing with it.”
Edmund had known that Uncle Alexander was pleased, but he also had known for ages that the learning had some painful spots. The last time Uncle Alexander had taught anyone Naming, it had been Perry.
Edmund had in fact spent some time this visit staring at the memorial stone in the family cemetery. Papa and Uncle Alexander had it put up when Edmund was ten. The Judsons, Perry’s people, blamed Uncle Alexander for Perry’s death. He’d had no place for a proper memorial or the rituals his people did for the dead.
Some of the things on there, Uncle Alexander translated readily. But some things he’d never said out loud, except maybe to Mama or Papa or Professor Fortier, who’d been Perry Judson’s best friend. Edmund’s skills with hieroglyphics were just about good enough to understand the surface text thoroughly, but not enough for the nuances he was sure were there. It made Edmund wonder what people would think of him when he died, or say or do about it.
Now, Edmund just nodded. “There’s a tremendous amount to learn. Even leaving out the languages in and of themselves.”
“Well. You’ll have a chance to use some of them this summer. Benton has some thoughts about your travels to and from Greece and Italy, of course. Have you given any thought to adding another charm or two to your book in the next few months? Oh, and shall we mount up and see about the pub?”
“As you wish.” Edmund waited until Papa had mounted. “As for the book— I was wondering if any of your connections in Italy might have me visit. I keep thinking about the charm that you and Mama put together, about connections, but whether that might be something that could pull in a thread of Naming. But I’m not sure I can manage the artistic technique I want, to imply something that was woven.”
Papa made an inquisitive noise, and Edmund went on. “I was wondering if perhaps the charm might be set so that a tapestry depicted key information. Symbolic, of course, or something that illuminated various parts more, depending on the information. I haven’t worked out the nuances, though.”
“That is a delightful sort of puzzle. I’m not at all certain how to go about it either. We shall sit down later and lay out what might be needed to make it work. When we get Alexander back, tomorrow or— well, more likely Thursday evening— we can put it to him. He’s always curious about the family books and how we develop them.”
They set off at a walk again since the pub was not terribly far. As they got closer, Papa settled into chatting about the state of things in the Forest, as they were coming into the spring. The actual pub involved half a dozen conversations with key people. Edmund devoted himself to paying attention to the ebb and flow of conversation, and to which people were more truthful than others. He could tell more easily with some than others, and that would be something to discuss with Uncle Alexander on Thursday as well.
Chapter 16
Tuesday, April 6th at a home in Cambridge
“Here you are.” Pen had been looking around the room, not trying to be too nosy. Constance Hill had been putting together a tray, leaving Pen in her study. The rooms themselves were not particularly elegant, but they had the casual, lived-in comfort of any academic study.
Constance was some ten years older than Pen, now a private tutor in maths for people who needed that sort of thing or who wanted to come up to Cambridge. “Gregory should be asleep for an hour. The others won’t be back until teatime.”
The others here were unspecified, but Pen had gathered that it was some combination of Constance’s husband, a lodger, and perhaps one of her older children. The older woman had not actually explained that part, and Pen had been uncertain how to ask.
She was here because she had known Constance at Bletchley, and Pen felt she was the most comfortable option to approach. There wasn’t as much of a gap in age as there might be, though Constance had been a married woman when she came to Bletchley. Her two sons had lived with one of her aunts for the duration, while her husband had been serving elsewhere. They’d had Gregory after the war, in 1946.
Pen hadn’t known her particularly well— they worked in different huts, and often on different shifts. But they’d both turned up at the folk dancing meetings when they could, and they’d chatted a bit there. Pen knew Constance was also magical, though she’d not gone to Schola. More importantly, Constance had gone to Girton, and thus understood the complexities of making a professional life in mathematics as a woman. And specifically, Pen hoped, as a woman interested in cryptography.
Pen nodded pleasantly, taking a cup of mint tea. “I appreciate the time. I couldn’t think who else to talk to who’d understand all the different pieces of it.”
“Ah, well. Now, that’s flattering. You’ve been up at Oxford, of course, since we last were together.” Pen had kept up a light correspondence, of course, most recently a Christmas card, but that sort of thing didn’t get into details.
“I am. And I’m feeling somewhat stuck, both about what to do now, and about what to do later, if you see the combination?” Pen let her voice trail off expectantly.
“Perhaps.” Constance smiled, though, and that softened it. “I don’t want to make assumptions, though. So why don’t you tell me?”
Pen lifted her teacup in acknowledgement, then took a breath. She’d thought about how to say this most of the way here. “The problem is, I want to keep going with cryptography, but the idea I have is magical. I don’t know how to do it, and I don’t know how to find someone who can help me.”
“The idea?” Constance leaned forward. “Or are you not telling anyone yet?”
That was the trick. If she told people, they might take her idea and run with it. On the other hand, it was a complex bit of magic. Constance might get somewhere with it, but she hadn’t had Schola’s training. The silence drew out a little before Constance cleared her throat. “I can make oath to keep it private. And it’s not as if I’m doing anything actively with that sort of work right now.”
Pen nodded once before asking a little cautiously, “What are you doing?”
“Besides keeping track of the household? Honestly, marriage has a number of virtues. But I am entirely done with having children of Gregory's age. I much prefer them older, but of course you have to go through the younger bits first.” It was good-natured exasperation, fond and yet entirely ready to be done with certain nonsense. “I tutor pleasant young men and young women, especially for the Mathematics Tripos.”
Those were the key exams for Cambridge, a somewhat different system than Oxford. Pen knew Constance had done extremely well, via gossip at Bletchley, where that was a mark of particular esteem. Though she could have guessed, because she’d been pretty sure Constance had been working with the other mathematicians on actual design and development.
Constance gave it a moment, then shrugged. “I hope to get back to research work sooner than later. I read the journals, I keep up conversations here and elsewhere. You have an idea of how it is. Do you want to work rather than marry?”
It was a blunt question, but it was the question all university women came back to, fundamentally. Some women came up to university more to find a husband than to contribute to the scope of human knowledge. Pen twitched a shoulder. “I haven’t met anyone yet I’d consider marrying. Whatever else, I’d want to keep up with my own work somehow. Less, if there were children, I suppose, there are practical issues.”
