Page 26 of Apt to be Suspicious
“And then took you out of the trenches.” Edmund knew a few of those stories, though not many details. The last part of that comment was another surprise. He didn’t think he’d ever heard Master Benton mention his own particular devotional focus before.
“Just so, sir.” There was a pause, as the horses walked along. “Lord Carillon has an eye for staff, of course. His particular gift, I have come to think, was not simply bringing in people of competence, but in finding ways in which they might grow and flourish. For the good of all.” That was a fascinating way to put it. “Improving the spaces around him, the way a well-tended estate improves the land magic for all nearby.”
That was certainly going to give Edmund a lot to think about. And to talk to Papa and Mama about once he’d had some time with it on his own. One thing he desperately wanted to know was how much of this Master Benton had planned to discuss in advance.
“That certainly includes you.” Edmund didn’t quite make it a question. “I know enough of the stories to be sure of that.”
“His lordship has been generous with his teaching from the beginning. And as you wish to rise to the challenge of Magister Landry’s expectations, I wished to rise to his lordship’s standards and needs. These days, I am confident I have done so, but at the beginning I was quite nervous about the whole thing.” There was another brief silence. “The particular gift his lordship has— and which her ladyship has further developed in him— is creating a space where the nervousness is acknowledged. Change is possible because of a trusting foundation.”
Edmund might have continued the conversation further, but just then they came around a curve in the road and along to a small cluster of houses. There would be people close enough to hear, at least a chance of it, and that was no good for this sort of thing. Edmund nodded, murmuring a “Thank you.” Then he cleared his throat. “So, what should I know about the bridge before we get there?”
That, naturally, produced a well-organised summary of the history of the bridge. The particular concern of the moment was about whether it could handle a flood like much of southeast England had had the previous year. They were to look at the options for improving the situation.
Chapter 18
Monday, April 26th at Oxford, near the Academy
Pen was hurrying along toward the Academy, hoping no one would stop her. She had half a dozen things she wanted to do before supper, and she only had two hours to do them. Of course, that meant people were taking up most of the pavement, making it hard to get by. Maybe ten feet ahead of her, she saw a familiar— annoyingly familiar— blond head. Though now he was wearing a scholars' gown, making it clear he’d done well in his Honour Mods. That was even more annoying, actually.
He was moving quickly enough that he wasn’t blocking her path. Or at least, he had been, until he spotted something across the street. He turned, dodging his way between bicyclists and behind an automobile. “Uncle Giles, Aunt Cammie. It’s Edmund.” He didn’t wave. He had his elbows back, keeping the billowing fabric from trailing too far behind him like the cloak of a knight out of legend. He was vastly better at managing the fabric than he had any right to be.
Two people across the street had stopped. Pen couldn’t see one of them very well, given the angles and the crowds. He was the sort of man who wore an unremarkable hat. But she knew the woman, closer to the street, by sight.
She’d not found a way to ask for an introduction to Cammie Gates, and here was Carillon walking right up and chatting. That was absolutely her. There were other women with that sort of brown skin in Oxford. But Pen suspected few who’d be that age and answer to that name. Or, by her apparently utterly accursed luck, be known to someone like Carillon, of all people.
He was speaking to them amiably, with little gestures, and she could see Mistress Gates laughing. The other two must have come from the Academy. There wasn’t much else further down that would lead to that sort of conversation. Just the new court building and the musical instruments collection.
Pen hovered, rudely taking up her own space on the pavement, because now she was wondering if she could be so pushy as to catch them up. But she couldn’t possibly. She’d make a fool of herself. They had no reason to care about her. None of them.
Finally, she took a breath. She could more usefully hover a block down, closer to the Academy. If Carillon were coming this way, she could get ahead of him and catch him in the Academy courtyard, where there’d be more privacy. Better, she’d have time to think about it. Pen went down a block, glancing back to see that he was finishing the conversation, and hurried on ahead to find a place to wait.
The courtyard was busy too. It seemed like everyone and their brother and sister were about. She could hear laughter spilling out from the Junior Common Room, and there were several knots of people chattering in the courtyard, not just the usual knot near the portal. Pen took a couple of steps back from the entrance and waited.
Carillon came through the arch on his own. If he’d met someone on the street, she couldn’t possibly have said anything. Now, she spoke as clearly as she could manage, feeling the stutter catch in her throat. “Carillon, do you have a minute?”
He stopped, pivoting smoothly on one heel, as if he were in the middle of a dance. “Miss Stirling.” He offered a nod, a touch of his hat, all the polite little gestures.
“Pardon. Do you—” Now the stutter was out there and she had to swallow. “Do you know Cammie Gates? Mistress Gates?”
“Magistra Gates-Clark. She married two years ago.” He made the correction somehow a shared secret, and that would have been aggravating if she weren’t busy flushing. So, Constance hadn’t had much recent news, then. Carillon tilted his head, looking at her as if she were something in a museum case. “If you’d like to talk more about it…” He glanced toward the Junior Common Room and saw an arm emerge from the window. “I’ve a workroom, and I can do better than the tea in the JCR. Would you care to come up?”
Pen was not at all sure she cared to. But she certainly couldn’t have a conversation standing here, when anyone might walk by. Now she was committed to the question, wasn’t she? If she went away now, he’d know about it. He’d judge her. And it appeared he had some degree of useful information.
Pen was not worried he’d take liberties. The protections at the Academy differed from Schola, but she’d been told— like all of them— that there were precautions against certain kinds of acts. And besides, she couldn’t imagine someone like him being that kind of problem to someone like her. She cleared her throat. “If it’s not a bother.”
“Not at all. Here, this way, before someone gets the idea of setting up a bohort match. High spirits as we turn toward spring, don’t you think? No one’s too burdened with essays and tutorials yet.” Carillon gestured, indicating the staircase along the park side of the quadrangle.
She went up first, but then had to step aside. “Pardon, I don’t know where I’m going.”
“It makes ladies first rather awkward, doesn’t it? This way.” They turned down one of the long halls until he stopped at a door. He pressed his hand to the warding panel on the door to produce a soft click. He pushed it so that it swung wide. The room inside was tidy. The scouts would make sure of that, she supposed, even if she wasn’t sure how that worked here. She could have had a study room of her own— her field didn’t need a magical workroom— but she hadn’t bothered. She hadn’t even been curious about what the rooms were like.
Pen took a couple of steps before blinking. The room was comfortable. That was the word. It felt well-tended, a place that liked the use it was put to. It felt, in a word, like the Ritual classroom at Schola, or the Astronomy classroom. Maybe more the hall outside, which was a different feel from the room itself.
What she could see involved a desk, cabinets, and a bookshelf, a padded bench, a desk chair. Edmund nodded at a door halfway down the space on the right. “That’s the workroom proper. Hang up your gown if you’d like. And take whichever seat you prefer. Tea? I have a bit of proper tea, three kinds of tisane that aren’t mint, or mint.”
“Erm.” She swallowed, put off balance again. “Something not mint, please.”
Edmund nodded, letting her stand and dither for a minute without interruption. After he hung up his gown— utterly unselfconscious about it— she did the same, on a second set of hooks further down. Then she perched on the bench, her feet tucked under it, feeling like she had to model a proper ladylike posture. Making the tea took a few minutes, of course, but then he brought out a small table, then a tray with a pot and two mugs. “Steep for four minutes.” Whatever it was smelled more like spices than anything else, which she hadn’t expected. Only then did he sit down, turning the desk chair to face her and pushing it back far enough to give her as much space as the room allowed. “Now, how may I help?”
