Page 59 of Apt to be Suspicious
“Our cook will be delighted.” Edmund did not press on other conversational topics— even the crossword— for the rest of the meal, before he pulled together his things and walked her back. Pen ducked into her staircase and rooms in plenty of time to change before anyone realised she was wearing the same clothes as yesterday.
Chapter 37
Wednesday, June 2nd in the evening
Edmund had made his way back from hall quickly, so he’d be back before Pen turned up. He’d thought about waiting for her by the bridge, but there was a chance that her friends or whoever else might see her with him and be difficult. That wouldn’t do at all. The possible observers would not, at least, include Circe.
Major Manse had written a quick note in the journal during supper, saying that Edmund had an eye for suitable talent, and they’d discuss at some point. Assuming the details checked out, MI6 would likely make Circe an offer of employment once she sat her exams, terms depending on how well she did.
Major Manse had indicated that the offer would be in some form sufficient for her to make sure her sisters had a place to live together. Circe had still been in London at that point, and wouldn’t be back on the train for a bit yet. Likely just in time to make it back before the gates were shut for the night. That meant Major Manse was enthused, not just pragmatic about the whole thing.
Edmund rather got the impression that Major Manse would make use of her even if MI6 declined, but he would not, of course, ask about that in writing. Such things were for a face to face conversation, with the best warding magic could provide. It made him feel as if he might have been of particular use, the sort of use that required him specifically, for once.
In the end, he had been waiting nearly half an hour. That had given him time to put a tray together, then to stare at it and contemplate what Pen might make of it. Edmund had a few apples, stored through the winter with a touch of magic, two of the mock meringues Mrs Mudthon had worked out, and a pot of tea. It felt properly civilised. He’d picked up and put down the crossword four or five times by the time he heard a knock on the conservatory door and got up to let her in.
“Pen. Good evening.” Edmund hesitated, then added, moved by some intuition. “I was a little worried.”
“That I wouldn’t come?” She came in, shrugged off her gown and hung it up on the hook by the door. She was wearing a lovely frock, actually, rather than the blouse and skirt he’d expected. And she’d taken the time to put her hair up in the puffs and curls that Edmund knew took a fair bit of time and fuss. That at least suggested she had been anticipating the conversation. Some possibly more positive way. “Or that I’d been held up?”
“Both?” Edmund offered it weakly. “Come in, I’ve got a few things for pudding. Nothing fancy. Oh, and have you looked at the rest of the crossword?”
“Yes?” Now she was the one who sounded uncertain. “Why?”
“Fifteen across? Clough’s problematical dupes, five letters.”
“Oh, that’s from a poem. Do you know it? ‘Say Not the Struggle Naught Availeth’. Quoted by Churchill at least once.” Pen shrugged slightly. “If you have a best of English poetry or something of the kind, you might have a copy.”
Edmund did, so he nodded, and he hadn’t got around to checking it. “Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable.” He took a couple of steps toward that shelf, then thumbed through the blue-bound volume, then read the poem. “Hopes, indeed. ‘If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars’. There’s something uncertain in the logic there.” Then he quoted the last line, “But westward, look, the land is bright!” before closing the book and setting it back in its place.
He came back to settle down in one of the chairs, on the side of the sofa she’d chosen. “Did you get four down?” He glanced at the clue and read it out as a reminder. “Ah, a pity she might be.”
“I feel like I ought to, but it’s been rather a day,” Pen admitted, glancing at her hands, then looking at him.
“Hypatia.” Edmund said it amiably. “I have an advantage here. Aunt Cammie’s sister and best friend is Hypatia. You’ll meet her sometime soonish, I’m sure.” There, now he’d put things back on the path to Pen’s skills, which he hoped would help.
“Oh. Blast. Of course it is. I had the H and the A.” Then she glanced at the tray. “May I pour?”
“Please. Now, where should we start? First, thank you for staying. You needn’t have, but I’m grateful. Master Benton said he was glad someone was here. I’m sure he’d have stayed, but he had appointments this morning. Better he started from home.” Edmund let her fuss over the tray, not wanting to get in the way.
“He said he’d been with your family a long time. 1915?” Pen asked before offering a cup of tea and a saucer. She had a delicate hand with it, though that didn’t surprise Edmund. Surely anyone who grew up in a vicarage was a dab hand at pouring neatly at an early age. Sheer self-preservation, if for no other reason.
“He was Papa’s batman in the Great War, then did other military work, then he was Papa’s valet and they went on various expeditions together. Looking for materia, that sort of thing. The Himalayas and the middle of Africa and so on. When my parents married, he became the estate steward. He keeps everything in wonderful order. He always has.”
Pen looked up at that, one of the meringues halfway to her mouth. Edmund gestured for her to take a bite. She did, then her eyes widened in disbelief before she swallowed. “Are those eggs?”
“Aqua faba, you know, that liquid in tinned chickpeas? And some sugar and a charm to extend it. If you’d like the recipe, I can ask Mrs Mudthon for it.”
“Mum would love it. And my aunt.” Then Pen’s eyes narrowed. “You did that on purpose.”
“What, lured you into a bit of happiness with meringues?” Edmund tilted his head. “If you’re going to accuse me of things, can you be more specific? I’ve done rather a lot on purpose recently.”
Pen wrinkled up her nose. “I suppose you have.” She set the meringue down for a moment. “What did you do to Circe? No, wait. She tried to drug you. Why didn’t it work? What did you do to her? Who did you send her to talk to? That’s rather a lot of questions, but I’m not sure where to start.” Then she let out a huff of breath. “How could you make it come out like that? Your family doesn’t have much fondness for hers, obviously.”
“Ah.” Edmund considered where to begin, given that tangle. “I suspected she might try some sort of potion, especially when she was the one to bring the drinks up. Papa has two alchemist friends who like a puzzle, and of course they’re familiar with what works best for our family. An antidote to the usual sort of things people put in drinks is a lot easier when you’re making for a specific constitution.”
“That’s the sort of thing your family has handy?” Pen grimaced now. “That doesn’t seem civilised.”
“Some people aren’t. And sometimes our sort of person finds themselves in such company.” Edmund framed it that way, reaching for the ambiguity of whether he meant to include Pen in ‘our’ or not. He did, but he wasn’t at all sure she’d accept it. “The rest of it, well, a lot of it was Naming magic. Exhausting, but helpful. And permission to draw on some of the truth magics, which I’ve not done quite like that before.”
