Page 8 of Apt to be Suspicious
Edmund shook his head. “Not directly. Who was it telling the story— I forget now.” It had, in fact, been someone at the Academy, which was why it had caught his attention. He was fairly sure the Wintons— those Wintons— weren’t magical. He was certain they weren’t notably magical, anyway. “Do you remember what happened?”
“Why, are you interested?” Tugs leaned forward.
Edmund considered his choices. “Mother likes a bit of a mystery. And Father spends a lot of time looking at the auctions. Objects d’art and all that, as well as books.” He was careful about what he called Mama and Papa in these conversations, because calling him that, the names he actually used, had implications that wouldn’t serve Papa’s goals. Edmund had sworn to himself long ago that he’d not cause Papa’s many plots and twists of skill to come to nothing.
“Ah.” Tugs leaned back, but said nothing for a long moment. Edmund thought he’d fouled it, but then Tugs added, quietly, “They’re cousins. And it was rather a mess. They had quite a large party. Thirty or so. People our age and some of the extended family. Quite a work of art, too. And sentimental, it was a gift to their great-grandfather when he was out in India.”
Edmund nodded, the proper amount of solemnity. “I’m sorry to hear it. Losing a work of art— especially if there’s a family history— is always such a waste.”
“There’s a classicist for you, admiring old things. Come on, Bells, don’t you care about anything modern? You should come out dancing with us on Saturday. You never do.”
Edmund had other things he wanted to do on a Saturday night. Ritual work, for one thing, and the Academy was usually fairly quiet then. But now he let out a breath. “Anything particularly good going on? My reading doesn’t do itself.”
“All work and no play makes Bells a very dull boy.” Tugs said it mock-solemnly, and Edmund held up his hands in surrender. After hearing a bit more about it, he agreed to go along with them for at least a bit. He’d find another time for the ritual work Uncle Alexander wanted him to do. Friday, maybe, or Sunday.
Chapter 6
Wednesday, December 3rd
It was almost the end of term. Pen’s room was in a state. She’d had to sort the laundry she needed done to have clothes next week. Everything was topsy-turvy. She had in fact fled to the Somerville library.
Pen had managed, through some fluke of luck, to get a table near a window looking out on the quad. That, naturally, meant she’d done some of her work for her last tutorial tomorrow, but not all of it. She had yet more studying to do as well.
Pen kept staring out the window. The weather was not horrid. It was the people coming and going on the paths around the quad. They kept catching her eye.
When she’d been at Bletchley Park, she’d found herself watching the range of clothing and how people interacted. She’d started watching people at Schola. That was natural; it was the first time she hadn’t known most everyone on sight to start, as she had growing up in the village. But there, everyone wore uniforms, and even the staff usually wore an academic gown. They wore a more encompassing one than Pen’s own, not that it was difficult.
In contrast, her own commoners' gown was barely more than a vest, with its hanging strips down the front and the back hanging to the hips. Scanty, more a gesture at clothing, and the strips kept getting annoyingly in the way. There were upcoming scholarship exams, and if she did well enough on those, she might end up with a scholars' gown instead. Then she’d have to figure out how to get one, or how to save up clothing coupons for the fabric. That was a problem she hoped to have, but she did not need to worry about it yet.
Staring out the window, Pen thought again— as she did often— of the differences between Oxford and Bletchley. The thing about Bletchley had been the mix of people. Oh, there had been plenty of military uniforms, and also the Wrens, or ATS women— she refused to use ‘girl’— as well. But there’d also been plenty of women wearing a blouse and skirt or a dress, civilian clothing. But how they wore it, that gave hints of their class and background.
The same was true here. Some of that had to do with the clothing itself. The women from well-off families had begun the war with full closets, and so had their various relations. Clothing might be handed down and fitted to someone new, but there was fabric to work with.
Pen was somewhere in the middle, with good quality fabric, but everything was rather worn by now, after years of making do. All her skirts had a few mends, most of them near invisible after she’d applied charmwork over the stitches. Her blouses were still white and lacking in stains for the same reason. She’d always been good at that kind of domestic charm, and it had stood her in good stead in the past years.
But those two women there, one of them had something slightly odd. They were both in their third and final year. The one she didn’t know was wearing what Pen would expect from someone of modest but stable means. Tweed skirt, neatly fitted blouse, a scholars' gown over it with the puffed broad sleeves and the folds gathered across the back.
She knew Cecily Styles on sight, but mostly because the other woman was a bit notorious rather than anything of substance, as if no one could pin anything down about her. The more Pen looked, the more she wondered what her eye was catching in the woman’s clothing or posture. Perhaps the cloth was better quality than Pen would expect, but it was impossible to tell at this range. Especially through old glass, and with eyes that complained about that sort of distance.
No, maybe it was the fit of the skirt. Or the way the bow at her throat was tied, or the way her hair was put up. The hair, yes, that might be part of it. Pen had long hair, as most magical women still did. So did Audrey and Vesta. She had thought Miss Styles had shorter hair. The previous times Pen had seen her, Miss Styles had put it up in dark, firmly pinned waves, the way women with bobs did. But now, she could see that the woman had long hair. That was not wrong, but it had caught her eye.
The way Miss Styles was standing, there was something about that, too. Pen could not place it, though, which was why she kept staring. Fortunately, she was a floor up, and neither of them was likely to notice her attention. It made Pen wonder for a moment if Miss Styles might actually be magical.
But if she were, why did no one know about her that way? She certainly hadn’t gone to Schola, or Pen would have known the name and face at least. No, it must just be a trick of the light and the distortions in the glass. And perhaps Pen had not had nearly enough sleep the last two nights, worrying about her last problem set and tutorial.
None of this was serious. It was not as if some small thing— or larger one— might give away a German spy, after all. They were beyond such problems being a concern. Pen’s fancies weren’t worth mentioning. Not that she had any idea who to mention such things to. Everyone at Bletchley had melted back into their regular lives, or whatever passed for regularity.
Pen sighed, and bent her head back over her problem set again. She was entirely too busy to spend time on what was almost certainly nothing. And it wasn’t nice to gossip about other people, even in her head. Grandfather had standards about that sort of thing.
She barely packed up her books in time to eat in hall. After supper there was another stint in the library, and she came back to her room with barely enough energy to tidy further. It wasn’t kind to leave things a mess for Emily, the scout on their staircase. Pen fell into bed too tired to care about anything, with numbers swimming behind her eyelids.
The next day, she made a point of taking a break mid-morning, standing and stretching, before walking to look at the day’s paper. She had her own copy of the Times, of course, back in her room. The crossword was in her satchel. But Grandfather had trained her in the importance of reading the local paper, too. Now she glanced through the stories, none of which seemed terribly exciting. While she was waiting for one of the librarians to be free for a question about a book, she thumbed through the advertisements and notices.
The format had limitations and oddities, but her eye was caught by one that seemed rather shorter than the average. When she looked at it again, the wording also struck her as odd. ‘Driver, Oxford. Ideal terms. Need ongoing work. Write care of post office, Islip, #A54.’ As a post for a situation wanted, it was lacking rather a lot of detail and using words sloppily. Then she glanced at the date, and frowned. The section she was holding was from four days ago.
At that moment, the librarian was free, and Pen stepped forward. “I’d like to get a book, please, it wasn’t on the shelf? And then the papers— this section was out. It's four days old. Do you know if the ones in between are still out, please?”
“Oh, yes. The book first?” Pen handed over the slip with the title and author. She’d learned already this was far kinder when the titles had any sort of maths in them. The librarian turned away, went to check a few carts, and came back with it. “Waiting to be shelved again, you have excellent timing. Shall I check this out for you?”
