Page 30 of Apt to be Suspicious
Not having anything to say, however, meant that she sat there, watching him. Pen steered a punt by trailing the pole behind. Carillon was vastly more skilled, pushing or pulling each stroke as it touched the ground to adjust the angle of the punt as it slid smoothly through the water. He turned down the branch of the Cherwell that would loop down toward the Isis. That brought a particular question to the surface. “Why did you suggest the punt?”
“More privacy and better comfort than most of the other options, to be honest.” Carillon spoke comfortably, as if he weren’t bothered by anything. “It’s not the most beautiful day it could be, but it’s a pleasant May. Did you get up for the singing at Magdalen?”
She nodded. “A whole lot of us went round. People do. And then there was a thing at the Academy.” Pen hesitated. “I’m curious, but I suppose it would be frightfully rude to ask why you went home.”
Edmund considered, glancing around. There was no one remotely near them at the moment, and even the banks were clear. “I’m Heir to my father, and we’ve customs in the nearest village. I didn’t need to be there. Papa’s entirely competent at the whole thing, of course. But I wanted to be. My youngest sister came back from Schola for it and one of her friends. Well, two, but one of them lives on the estate.”
He didn’t explain any of that, but she didn’t expect him to. She did blink for a moment at the fact he called his father Papa, and out loud. Pen would have expected ‘father’ or maybe even ‘pater’ from a family like his.
He went on without noticing her confusion. “Uncle Giles and Aunt Cammie came out later in the morning, some other family friends. I enjoy seeing the people I care about. There wasn’t enough of that during the war. I’ll take any chance I can get.”
That certainly didn’t permit a followup question, but it gave Pen a thing she could say. “I had that, missing them. Only my grandfather’s a vicar. So, the times people particularly want to be home— Christmas, Easter, all that— are the busiest times for him, and everything is all about that. As it should be.” She said that hurriedly. “But it’s not good for spending time with just my family.”
“No.” Carillon shrugged slightly. “This was good for that.”
“Tell me a little about your sister, if you like?” Pen offered. “Until we get to where you want to talk.” That, apparently, was an excellent question. He talked comfortably about his sister at Schola, then about a middle sister who was apprenticing and travelling. None of it was private. It was all information that she could have heard through other people, but she was taken by his obvious fondness for both of them.
It wasn’t overly protective, either, wanting to seal them up in a vitrine. His middle sister was apprenticing as something of an adventurer, in fact. Carillon obviously wanted the best for them and was not shy of showing it here. Other men would have hidden that inclination. Did.
He’d just finished telling a story about one of his younger sister’s recent attempts at art when he guided the punt toward a bit of bank nestled between some trees. It was indeed rather quiet, far enough away from the boathouses or playing fields not to have people wandering by. “Here.” He tied up the punt to a ring set in a tree that overhung the river, keeping them steady, then turned around to join her in the seats. “Comfortable?”
“Yes, thank you.” Before she could say anything else, he drew a small bound book out of his jacket, opened it across his knees, and pressed three fingers to spots on the pages as he murmured a phrase. She could see a brief flicker of something— not light, so much as a sort of heat haze— before he looked up, an entirely boyish cheerfulness on his face. “There. Quite private now.”
“Most people would use a charm.” She said it before closing her mouth sharply. “Pardon.”
“Most people would.” Carillon didn’t seem bothered. “This is also a charm, just a little more effective. It’ll let me know if people start coming this way.” She had to admit that most of the charms she knew of wouldn’t do that, and the ones that did were fussy, especially outside. “Now, the hamper, the message for you. And then what I wanted to ask you. I hope you’ve not been worrying over it.”
“I can’t imagine what I could help you with, but I wasn’t worrying, no.” Worrying would imply he had more sway over her thoughts than she would permit. He tugged the hamper closer, opening it to reveal several layers. A bottle, yes, with what indeed looked like Pimm’s. But there were also little baskets and boxes.
He took everything out, closed the hamper to make a table, and opened the first container up, revealing some rather passable scones. “Fig preserves, no cream, I’m afraid. But there’s some soft cheese, small toasts, a little mushroom pâté. Oh, and the little miniature quiches. They have asparagus and spring onion in them.” He opened one of the larger containers, revealing several of those, an inch or two wide.
“Do— wait.” She swallowed down her question. “Where did this come from?”
“Home. The home farm and the estate kitchen specifically. Don’t worry, all of it’s homegrown, and we send off our surplus properly to the Temple of Healing and the schools and all that.” He glanced up. “But I’m under instruction to make sure I keep up my rations to allow for the magical work I’m doing, and yesterday was a proper feast day. These are mostly extras from that.” He eyed the hamper. “Well, there’s a tradition of cooks named Mudthon feeding us up, as a family.”
“Cooks, multiple?” Pen could more or less get her head around him having a cook. “How many people live there, anyway?”
“Our current Mrs Mudthon is the niece by marriage of our original Mrs Mudthon, who is now retired to bake only when she wishes. It allows for a continuation of Papa’s favourite biscuits— well, when rationing permits again— and she’s familiar with our ways. In terms of how many she cooks for, it depends on who’s home and what day of the week it is. Right now, anywhere from four to ...” He had to pause, as if doing maths he didn’t normally do that way, “Twelve, if it’s an informal supper. Plus the staff hall. More if there are guests. Last night was, oh, twenty-five, but that’s mostly because some of the other people we’d normally invite for that sort of gathering had their own land obligations.”
Pen was used to people coming and going in the vicarage. But the idea of twenty-something for supper seemed like an overwhelming number of dishes to deal with, even with magic. Teacups and saucers were quite bad enough that way. “Oh.” She swallowed. “The message?” She reached for one of the little plates, because she couldn’t let the scone go to waste.
“Uncle Giles and Aunt Cammie read your note, and they are both intrigued. Uncle Giles has several rather tricky bits of consulting over the next fortnight, maybe a little longer. But he promises he will send along a note about arranging time as soon as his work permits. I was expressly told to tell you he means it, if you had any doubt. And to tell you that if he does not write in a fortnight, to let me know so I can remind him.”
“Oh.” Pen swallowed. “I didn’t think it was?—”
“Aunt Cammie said it’s a clever idea. She didn’t tell me what it was, of course. And that you’d already spotted an option or two that weren’t in similar and far more flawed proposals she’d seen.” Then Carillon looked up. “I suspect it’s not the sort of thing where you can crow about your brilliance to anyone else. Either they won’t understand it or you ought to keep it private for reasons of the content. But if you could crow, you would be entitled to, I gather.”
“Oh.” It came out sounding different this time, and Pen knew she was flushing horribly. “Thank you for taking the message, then. I hope I won’t have to bother you further.”
“It is absolutely no bother for me to toddle along and chat with either of them. I promise.” He reached to take one scone, spreading it with the fig preserves and taking a pleased bite. She did the same, partly because doing what he did seemed less stressful. They were excellent, even with the heavier flour. Their cook was skilled, then.
“What was it you wanted to ask me?” It came out sharp again, but Pen was less and less sure of her footing here.
“Ah. I’ve noticed some odd things. I’m wondering if you’ve noticed odd things. People here at Oxford, the ones I’m thinking of aren’t magical.” Carillon was watching her now, but in a sort of open way, not staring. That was also deeply annoying, because she’d have an idea what to do if he were staring rudely. This was him being focused on her, and she wasn’t at all sure she wanted it to continue.
“Why me?” That was, in fact, the thing Pen had been trying to sort out.
He shrugged, one hand palm up. “You’re reading maths. You must be quite good at logic proofs at this point. I would like to borrow a cup of logic, or something of the kind. Someone else’s observations.”
