Page 47 of Apt to be Suspicious
“Sir.” Pen swallowed, and took her notes out of her satchel. She was desperately glad she had them, honestly, because half of what she knew had flung itself out of her head. She looked down, then began as clearly as she could. They knew some of it, of course. She’d given a summary in her initial letter. But this was the more detailed version, referencing various extant work she knew about. She reviewed the published work and some theories she hadn’t been able to figure out how to test yet. There was a digression into a particular line of thought about chronological magic and the problems of measuring longitude. All of those came pouring out like a dam overflowing.
When she came to the end, Major Lefton had his fingertips touching, and Mistress Gates-Clark was leaning forward. She made a small sound in her throat, something that meant something to Major Lefton. He nodded once and said, “Do you have a copy of that you can leave with Cammie?” He then went on, before she could say anything. “To begin, I think it is an approach entirely worth pursuing. There are three things you should know about that.”
“Sir, yes, I have copies I can leave.” She almost stammered about not knowing what would be useful for him, but he’d said he had a system for that, so she bit her tongue and closed her mouth.
“Grand. First, I am not in a position to take you on formally for tutoring this term, but I would be come Michaelmas. But, assuming you’re interested, I will make it so then. Even if I have to rearrange every other piece of my life to permit it. If you are willing and have a little time available in the rest of Trinity term, we might begin now. I’ll take care of the formalities, but you might wish to let Miss Sarginson know yourself. She won’t be offended. We can leave the question of the history of maths tutoring for women at Oxford aside for the moment. If she is willing to remain your tutor of record, that might be easier on the paperwork, though. We’d have a year together while you’re up at Oxford. But I wish to be clear I am offering you a formal apprenticeship, and that would continue after you sat your exams. The Academy will gladly give us space to work if you’d rather stay in Oxford proper and we can arrange for library access as well.”
It was overwhelming, what was suddenly on offer. “Apprenticeship? Sir. I mean, the arrangements.”
“I am confident in your abilities, and I am equally confident we can work out an agreement. I take on whom I choose. I’m not dependent on apprentice fees or any of that. Academic credentials are a help for library access, and I’ll be asking you to do some things to assist me. Learn to type using a braille writer, for example, but that shouldn’t be too much of a challenge for you.”
Pen swallowed. “As if I could say no, sir. Of course, I’m glad to learn that sort of thing. Anything you’re willing to teach me about the field. And yes, in my second year.” The thought of being able to spend more time at Oxford, not bound by the limitations of Somerville’s curfews and obligations, was also rather compelling, actually.
“Excellent. You have learned a great deal. You are entirely on track for what you wish to do. But it needs time to cook, as my wife Kate would say. She does like a properly simmered stew.” The reference made Pen duck her chin, suddenly nervous of how to fit this information into everything else, the sudden change in metaphor. He went on, of course he couldn’t see that sort of thing. “Second, there is quite a lot to work with in your proposal. I have not, in fact, read a couple of the references you’re using, and I believe they might be of further use.”
Now, Pen made a surprised sound herself. “But it’s your field, sir?”
“Even within my field, I do not manage to read everything. Cammie?” He lifted a hand.
“I’ve read the Atheling, but that reference to Baddington isn’t one I’d have thought to apply. I’ll get a copy from Thesan. I’m certain she’s got it handy.” Mistress Gates-Clark added, “Professor Wain, of course. My mother’s married to Ibis Ward. I don’t know if Edmund mentioned it. It makes it easier to pillage a number of the professorial research collections.”
Pen nodded. “He did mention. Ma’am. So you’re familiar with the Schola staff that way.”
“They can’t get rid of me is more like it.” Then there was a pause, as if she were thinking through implications. “Oh, might as well encourage you again. If you are going to take on Giles as a tutor, it is much easier to be informal in private if you can bring yourself to it. We end up talking a lot, and titles take up more time than they need to. And honestly, I’m still not used to people calling me Gates-Clark.”
“Also, Cammie is not actually made for formality, though she fakes it well enough when she has to.” Major Lefton snorted, clearly amused. “Is that acceptable?”
“Yes, sir.” Pen swallowed. “Giles, Cammie, if you prefer.” He gave her a broad smile, so that was clear enough. “I hadn’t thought to ask for, erm, any of that?”
“You wouldn’t, I expect. Which is why I am offering. That brings us to our third point. You should know that both Cammie and I are aware of where you served during the War. I have not got someone to look at your records— easier for me to get permission, but not to read them. I will sort out an option soon, unless you’d rather I didn’t.”
Oh. That put rather a different light on it. “Sir. Of course you’d be— I mean.”
“I was not directly involved in Bletchley Park, for a variety of reasons. Including the fact that certain people presume blindness is more of a limiting factor than it needs to be. I was doing some related work in magical cryptography here. Cammie, well, that’s a different story. But I’m read in on the oaths and did some consulting by letter, that sort of thing. Do you have that copy handy?”
“Yes, sir. They’re not sealed to a reader, I wasn’t sure what you’d prefer.” Pen stood up, a little uncertainly.
“I’ll teach you my preference when we get a chance,” Giles said. “Cammie, can you braille those for me soonest?”
Mistress Gates-Clark— Cammie— reached out her hand. “I should manage it tonight.” Pen stood, handing the sheaf of a dozen pages over. Cammie thumbed through them. “Well, maybe tomorrow. Rather densely thorough. Not that it’s a problem. It will just take me a minute, especially the diagrams. Depends on how fussy herself is. She’s teething again.”
As Pen turned back to her seat, she glimpsed something unexpected through the window. Edmund was standing there in profile, maybe five feet beyond the glass. He had a baby who certainly looked around a year and a half in his arms. He was rocking her slightly, the practised sway of someone who had held a number of babies for an extended period.
Pen had seen many babies with people they knew and didn’t know over the years. They were a constant in the vicarage. This one looked delighted, not offended. Certainly, she did not look like she knew what the word fussy meant.
Edmund looked entirely happy with it, too. He’d taken off his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves, the bare paler arms contrasting with the baby’s browner skin and dark green smock. He looked like there was nothing in the world he’d rather be doing, nothing else that mattered. Suddenly, Pen wondered what it’d be like to have that sort of focus on his own child. Or someone he was with.
She’d stopped moving, stopped saying anything, and behind her, she heard Cammie’s voice. “Giles, Edmund has Kenna again, bouncing her in his arms, and she looks delighted, as she always is with him.” Then, entirely conversationally, she added, “Miss Stirling— may I call you Pen?— none of us has any idea why Edmund is quite that good with a baby. It’s not anything he’s talked about that I know of.”
“Pen, yes, please.” She said it automatically, but then she blinked several times. “He has younger sisters. He mentioned that. But not that much younger. I don’t know about cousins or anything like that.”
“Good to know your basic maths are strong as well as the more complex ones. Merry’s apprenticing and Ros is in her third year at Schola, so not too much of a gap. Though he’s fiercely protective of them. No close cousins. His uncle and aunt didn’t have children.” Cammie gestured with one hand. “Kenna’s seventeen months old. The other incipient baby in the closer set— my chosen sister’s, Hypatia Sisley now— is due in December. You’ll see Hypatia about the place when she can, too. We’re in and out of each other’s pockets. But the other people who might have babies sometime soon haven’t yet, the people he’s close to around his age.”
Giles said, amused. “Hypatia is Ibis Ward’s younger sister, but she and Cammie are a couple of years apart in age. Both Owl House, bless them. Once they began spending more time together, they promptly decided they ought to be sisters. Never mind that there’s technically a generation between them. None of us are minded to argue with them.”
“Because none of you would win.” Cammie shot back with it, quick and delighted. Pen was fascinated— would be fascinated— by the way they were. The thing she’d wanted but hadn’t known even how to ask for, was that kind of relationship with a mentor, with an apprentice master or mistress, where it wouldn’t stop when she’d finished her apprenticeship.
Cammie obviously hadn’t. Edmund wouldn't, since he was apprenticing with someone he already called Uncle. The thought she might be welcomed into a community of sharp, competent, talented people interested in enough of the same things was overwhelming.
