Page 54 of Apt to be Suspicious
“I can see how that might give one particular fears.” Edmund spoke gently. For all he was certain, increasingly certain, that she was up to something in specific— about him, about others— he had no desire to be cruel. Not unless it were actually necessary, and that was not the case yet. “We are at an impasse, aren’t we?”
“We are, a little. Be a dear, and finish your drink, darling. I can pour you a little more.” She glanced at his hand, then back at his face.
“I thought it a shame to rush it, but you’re right, I am a tad thirsty. The weather’s warming, of course.” Edmund could engage in this sort of prattle as well as anyone and better than most. He took a sip from the glass. “An interesting honey.”
“Oh, yes. The bees where I grew up, that’s the best sort of taste, isn’t it? The ones we’re born to understand.” It was a fascinating phrasing. Also, interestingly, one she honestly believed, or so his magic told him. It was certainly one he believed in as well.
“I entirely agree. No food ever tastes as good to me as what’s come from Ytene.” Here, he let himself digress for a minute. He could talk forever about the nature of the local landscape, the pigs who’d grazed on acorns and forest plants, the sheep in their meadows, the chickens. It was perhaps a tad difficult for her, but he wanted to see how she reacted. The more he talked, the more he suspected she came from somewhere with its own home farm. She had not gone years without plenty of eggs, at least at times. Or milk or cream in abundance.
As he talked, she gave every show of listening intently. He did his best to play along with what she expected, whatever that might be. But he could not quite bring himself to entirely slur his words, if the point of the drink was drunkenness. Besides, as a young man of his age and class, his head for alcohol might be reasonably assumed to be a good one. He’d certainly put a fair bit of time and training into that problem to keep up with his peers in London.
When he’d gone on for a little longer, seeing what she’d do, she patted his arm, like one might pat a cosseted dog’s head. “Be quiet now, do.” With that, he could feel the magic coiling, but then just sliding away from him.
“I don’t think so.” As he spoke, he let his own magic surge, a horse about to leap a fence, all tidy limbs and enthusiasm aimed in a particular direction. He twisted his hand under hers to grab her wrist, adding a charm to keep her anchored in her seat.
Her eyes widened. “I’ll scream.”
“They won’t hear you.” He was certain of it. “I wish to have a particular conversation.”
“You’d not hurt me.” Cecily tried to pull her arm back, and Edmund kept a good hold. He didn’t entirely need it, not now. But it would be a shame to have her thrash and break the glasses, or perhaps injure herself. “Who are you?”
That made something snap into place, and he quoted the line in Greek, with a sudden certainty and the hard crack of the K in the first word. Then, more deliberately, he gave a reasonable translation in English, softening the K to the S sound. “Circe said, ‘I am amazed you could drink my potion and yet not be bewitched’.” The first word of it, the name, made her eyes widen. Edmund pressed the point. “That is your name, yes? Circe?”
She did not answer, lowering her eyes, breathing hard like she’d just run a race.
Chapter 34
That evening
By the time Edmund appeared, Pen was fretting herself to pieces. She’d thought she’d learned how to deal with the waiting, knowing something big was about to happen, but not how it would go. It turned out that code-breaking was not quite the same thing as waiting for Edmund to set off what he had in mind. Maybe it was also about the nature of the work at hand. At Bletchley, she’d known what would happen, the sequence of it. Here, she not only had no idea, not really, but Edmund hadn’t either. He’d sketched out the range of possibilities, what he’d prepared for. That wasn’t enough.
She was worried, tremendously worried, about the drink. But Master Benton, when she looked at him, seemed entirely at ease about it. Pen took a breath, folded her hands in her lap, and waited some more. The good thing— well, better than the alternative— was that they could hear what was said clearly. When Edmund asked about the name, about Circe, there was a long silence. The next thing she heard was, “Pen, would you join us?”
Master Benton nodded once, and so Pen stood, opening the door, closing it behind her, and doing her best to walk evenly across the room. “Yes?” Now that she could see, she could tell that Cecily— Circe— whatever the name was, was pale.
“I’d like you to hear this as well, if you don’t mind. Circe, would you shift to the other chair? I’ll take the sofa. Oh, and Pen, don’t drink the mead, of course.” With his free hand, the one not around Circe’s wrist, he cast some sort of charm. “The chair, please.” He released her hand, but it was clear that if Circe made any movement that was not permitted, something would happen.
Circe cleared her throat, stood, and then moved to the chair. Edmund stood, taking the now empty sofa, and leaving the remaining chair for Pen. She realised suddenly that he was putting himself between her and the other woman in case of anything— well. Anything. Once they were all rearranged, rather like chess pieces on a board, Edmund spoke again. “I would like some answers. Those answers will determine what we do next. For one thing, I have extant oaths about reporting people who are concealing themselves with an eye to harming those of Britain.”
Circe’s eyes went wide. “Not what I expected, no.”
Edmund shrugged once. Pen felt something like being at a tennis match, watching a ball bounce back and forth, with points being scored, but with nuances she did not fully understand. “If you had, that would be a different situation.” His voice was even, measured, though Pen thought he was not entirely as calm as he seemed. “Now. I will call a charm that will make it clear if you are speaking the truth. I will make oath not to use magic to harm you for the duration of the conversation, if you wish, and until we figure out a suitable resolution.”
“What are you going to ask about?” Circe now seemed almost resigned. She tried to lift a hand to brush a bit of hair back behind her ear and apparently found her movement restrained. “Let me go.”
“You are not being harmed.” Now, Edmund had a drawl to him, something about an assumption of power and privilege that was not at all like he normally was in private. Or even much in public. Then, he rattled off a formal oath, on his magic, that he was seeking truth in this conversation, to resolve issues that posed a threat to Oxford and to Albion, as well as to the non-magical of Britain. It ended with the statement that he committed to not using magic to harm her for the duration.
Pen could see the moment the oath itself caught, a flash of something complicated in his eyes. Then he went right on, into a charm of some kind, in ornate legal Latin. “There. Tell me your name, the one your family knows you by.”
Circe shivered, looking over at the fireplace. Then she looked back at Edmund, ignoring Pen entirely. “Circe Summers.” It was not a name that Pen knew, though the initials were consistent.
“And your family?” Edmund pressed. “Who are they?”
There was a toss of her head. “My father was Josse Williams.” She did not continue.
Edmund raised an eyebrow. “He died last autumn. My condolences on your loss.” Something in that made Circe shiver, a bone-deep movement that wasn’t hiding anything for a few seconds. Edmund waited until she’d quieted and then conversationally added to Pen, “You might remember I mentioned Margot Williams in discussion a while ago. Josse Williams was Reynold’s younger brother.”
Pen nodded, not entirely sure what to do with that information. Edmund went on to Circe. “That would be a fair part of why you were avoiding me in particular, then. Were you close to your aunt and uncle?”
