Page 56 of Apt to be Suspicious
Circe looked entirely sceptical, but she took a breath and then laid out a list. “French, German, Italian. I’ve been picking up Russian. I can write a presentable essay in English, and read a map. Magically, I’ve trained both in sewn enchantments and in various potions. Not fully an alchemist, most of it is stillroom work, but for a variety of purposes. Calm, sleep, someone not noticing me. Charms that can do the same, at least in a limited way. Charms to make me seem like I want to be seen, mostly.” Her chin came up. “I’d like to know what you spotted, if you’ll tell me. What made you pay attention?”
“Oh.” Edmund nodded once. “In that case, we might come to some agreement.” He lifted his fingers. “And yes, one that would keep your sisters safe in a way acceptable to you.”
Pen blinked at him, her mouth open. She was only not embarrassed by this because she saw the exact same expression on Circe’s face.
Chapter 35
That evening
Edmund kept his mouth shut. The trick with this conversation— well, one trick among a dozen— was pacing what he said against what he wouldn’t say. He trusted Circe a certain amount, now that the charms were in play. Mostly, he trusted her to have an eye for her own benefit. She’d been truthful enough about what her goal was. It meant, though, that he had to wait.
It also meant he could not focus on Pen. Edmund had wanted her there because he was certain she’d spot several things that Edmund wouldn’t. Things that would be useful later. But he’d also wanted her there, like he wanted Ursula handy for certain kinds of conversations, or Anthony. Or Mama or Papa, for that matter, depending on the topic and people. Certainly, he hadn’t wanted to leave her out.
There was a certain strategy in having another woman present, too. If Circe had thought of it, she could theoretically have argued that he’d been aggressive in his actions. Or more than just the charms he’d used, even if his words were mild. Having a witness present was a help.
Finally, Circe found her tongue. “What do you think you can do about it? You’re still at university.”
It made Edmund smile. “Ah.” That made it time to do what he’d planned to do since the range of her skills became clear. “I’m going to write a note to someone. I believe I should hear back fairly quickly this time of night.” He reached into his interior jacket pocket, not for his book of charms, but for the small bound book on the other side. This one was not one of the regular magical journals. It was the bound volume that let him communicate directly with Major Manse, and with a couple of others who were both magical and working at MI6.
Circe tugged against the restraining charms. “Someone in the Guard.” She sounded resigned to it.
“Oh, no.” Edmund patted his pocket, then pulled out the fountain pen. “Nothing like that. Though I’ll want the gems back, so they can be returned. I suspect the Guard will do that part. Or one of their connections. Let’s see if I get an answer.”
Briefly, in the shorthand Mama had taught him long since, he jotted down a note, built from phrases. He kept it brief, because a fair bit of this was going to come down to Major Manse’s own evaluation. What Edmund needed to know was whether there was a chance of a meeting. That done, he closed the book, but left it out and at hand, resting against his thigh. Then he looked up to focus on Circe again.
She had settled with her hands folded in her lap, her expression unreadable. He was grateful she was not attempting to fight him. He was fairly certain the charms would hold, but he had not been entirely confident. Everything he’d learned from Papa and Master Benton and Major Manse and Uncle Giles and especially Uncle Alexander was that you did not trust something in the field until you’d done it under field conditions. Reality always posed unexpected challenges.
Circe met his eyes, then spoke clearly. “Why are you like this? Given—” Here, her voice did crack, and she flinched. “Given Aunt Margot.”
“Were you close to your aunt and uncle?” Edmund parried that smoothly enough.
She shook her head. “Not really. They were away most of the time while I was growing up. They’d send letters. I’d hear gossip.”
“You know what the court case said.” Edmund didn’t make it a question, because he could see she knew. “Deliberate destruction of people’s lives. Do you want to do that?” The truth magic was still in play.
“I suppose—” Circe swallowed. “I want to feel safe. It’s reasonable to protect myself, surely.”
“It is.” Edmund agreed. “But there are different manners of protection. And different people to help or harm, to choose. Your choices so far— well. Many women in need of a bit of stability have done near enough the same. Men, too, certainly. If in a slightly different mode. The magic makes it trickier.”
“You wouldn’t.” Now, there was something sharper in her voice, a chasm between her experience of the world and his.
Edmund chose his words carefully, entirely aware that Pen was a foot or two away and listening. “Not like that. I wouldn’t need to. I will not claim I understand the pressures you’re under, or how you’ve chosen to deal with them. I am going to say that you have other choices that have advantages both for you and Albion as a whole.”
“You are a prig.” Circe pronounced it, each word distinct.
The thing was hilarious, so much so that Edmund let himself laugh. There was the play on words and myth, of course. Circe was famous for turning men into pigs. “The seeming is not the same as the reality. You know that.” He kept his voice light. “I won’t argue that all men are good, or all women otherwise. I’ve more sense, thank you. And sisters.” And a mother and aunts of various sorts, though he refrained from pointing that out just at the moment. He did not need to pour acid on that particular wound. “But do not place an argument in my mouth I haven’t made.”
Circe was silent for six or seven breaths. “Why are you like this? Why not just turn me over to the Guard?”
“Because I think there’s a better choice. For you, for Albion. We’ll see.” Edmund glanced at her, then went back to waiting.
“Who did you write to? Will you tell me that?” Her voice had turned a little wheedling now. Just a touch, she had a good ear for it, what would be too obvious.
“Someone of Albion, but someone who might have an opportunity for you. A— mmm. One that I think would suit your talents.”
“And it suits your scruples?”
Just as she said that, he felt a slight vibration from his book. That was more subtle than a chime or any other charmed sound. He flipped it open, glancing at the page he’d left the ribbon in. “Would you be able to go up to London, ideally tomorrow, for an interview? St James Square, two o’clock.” Her eyes narrowed. “I can spot you the train fare if you need.”
