Page 27 of Apt to be Suspicious
“May I, um.” Pen cleared her throat. “You know Magistra Gates-Clark well?” She wouldn’t get the name wrong twice.
“I do.” Carillon tilted his head, looking at her for a moment. He seemed about to say something else, but then he waited.
It made Pen have to do her own work, and while she should have been pleased he wasn’t making assumptions, she hated having to put it into words. “A friend suggested I write to her. About a topic I’m interested in. I hadn’t figured out how to ask Professor Acharya or someone else to, to?—”
“Ah.” It was just the one syllable, annoyingly brief and hard to read. Though then he leaned back, one ankle going across an elegantly clad knee. “I’d be glad to arrange an introduction if it’s something related to her interests.”
Pen swallowed hard. “May I ask how you know her? More than just school.”
“Oh, yes.” Carillon considered how to answer that. She saw him deliberately take a moment before he spoke again. “I call her Aunt Cammie to be polite. She’s no relation. But her mother has been a friend of Papa’s for ages. They were in the same year at school.” Fox House, Pen assumed, like anyone who was likely to have the land magic would be. “And then she apprenticed to Uncle Giles, who’s been a friend of Papa’s since 1911, and— well. Aunt Cammie.” He tapped his finger on his knee. “Not an Oxford woman, but she’s been in and out of his rooms here for ages, quite familiar with the place.”
That made her blink again, because of that other name. “Magister Giles Lefton?”
“Also Major Lefton, yes,” Carillon said smoothly. “That’s who Aunt Cammie was with. Oh, but I suppose you’d not know him on sight necessarily. Uncle Giles doesn’t care for crowds much.”
Pen supposed that was common enough to a lot of men of that generation, for reasons none of them spoke about. “Oh. I didn’t know he was back at Oxford.” She was surely failing to hide her disappointment.
Carillon raised an eyebrow. “This conversation becomes more interesting with every sentence you say, so you know. Look, would you give me the brief summary of your relevant academic interests here? I have a suspicion I might lend a hand. The paragraph or two version, not the ten pages variety. I’m not sure I’d follow that.”
Pen swallowed. She couldn’t talk about Bletchley. She knew that. Pen couldn’t even hint at it. She didn’t know how far the oaths would tangle things up. But she’d also thought about how to frame this. “I’ve read what Major Lefton has published about his work. Obviously, I’m sure there’s a lot that isn’t published. I’m interested in some implications for creating codes or breaking them, and I’ve had an idea about applying chronological or locational magic to aspects of it. A friend, a mathematician, suggested that Magistra Gates-Clark might be interested in it, and perhaps have an idea how to go forward.”
Both Carillon’s eyebrows went up, then he nodded once. “Oh, Aunt Cammie would definitely be interested in that. And Uncle Giles as well.” He tapped that forefinger one more time. “Did you know that he’s been blind since the Great War?”
Pen blinked. “No?” Her voice cracked. “That’s not the sort of thing they put in mathematical journal biographies.”
“Here. The tea’s ready. Have a sip or two.” He sounded amused, but this time Pen was more sure it wasn’t at her expense. She swallowed once. He smoothly poured a cup, tapping it once and murmuring the charm that brought the cup to perfect temperature and handed it to her. Then he poured his own, repeated the charm, and took a sip of his own.
Once she’d had a bit, Carillon went on. “Uncle Giles has been exceedingly busy with work in the aftermath of the war. That’s finally easing off, and he’s planning to be here more reliably this term. Certainly next year, the world willing. He has rooms here, but he also takes tutorials at Oriel. He dines in hall there several nights a week. Aunt Cammie was walking him down. Crowds are harder on his guide dog, especially with everyone in high spirits and new routines for the term.”
Pen was certainly somewhat familiar with people who’d had all sorts of injuries. Anyone who spent a lot of time around a vicarage or helping with parish needs was. She had not, however, considered the particular challenges of something like being blind in a city as busy as Oxford. Or with as many people being chaotic as the university provided. Especially with the university absolutely bursting with students right now, out of every seam and tucked into every corner. “Oh.” It sounded pitiful to her ears. She took another sip of the tea, then blinked at it. “Spices.”
“A herbal blend— well, spices, more— that another friend of my family likes.” He didn’t give any names. “Look, would you write up what you’re interested in? I’ll pass it along to Aunt Cammie and Uncle Giles. I can’t make any promises about when they’ll have time, but I will promise to get it to them promptly. And if you like, to give things a nudge if needed.”
Pen narrowed her eyes. “Why would you do that?”
“I enjoy giving my friends interesting problems.” Carillon said it lightly, but there was something dancing in his eyes that she absolutely didn’t understand. “You can find me here— well, reliably on Monday and Thursday evenings after hall or stick a note in my pidge sealed to me. Whatever you like.” Then he stood. “Take your time with the tea, but I ought to set some things out for a ritual exercise.”
It at least gave her an excuse to avoid further conversation. “You’re very kind.” That covered the offer, the tea, the time to gather herself. She sat quietly, occasionally trying to make sense of the books on the shelf across from where she was sitting.
He, for his part, went back and forth from the cabinets into the ritual room with a small table, various items— a bowl, a bell, several candles, and candlesticks— humming slightly under his breath. By the time she’d finished her tea, he was shedding his jacket to replace it with a sleeveless ritual robe of a deep green silk. It was the sort of fabric that Pen yearned for in her dreams and that was utterly impossible under rationing.
She stood. “Should I take the tray down?”
“Oh, no bother. I’ll be adding to the tray after.” He added something in Latin that she couldn’t parse quickly enough, though she heard the word ‘Mercurius’ in there somewhere. Or at least she thought that was the declension. Mercury, anyway. It seemed like a touch of a blessing, or at least the sort of formulaic thing people might say there. A moment later, he added, “A good day. I’ll look for whatever you send along to share.”
Pen ducked her head, then nodded. “Thank you. I hope your work goes well.” Then swiftly, she added, “And I gather congratulations on your Honour Mods.”
“Thank you.” Carillon turned to look at her, a smile on his face she couldn’t read. It might have actually been pleased. It might have been a mask. She honestly couldn’t tell. Certainly, that was her cue to exit. And then she had to force her mind to focus on her work, not think over every word and gesture of the conversation, once she was down in the library.
Chapter 19
Thursday, April 29th at the Academy
“There. One more time, the gestures, please.” Uncle Alexander sounded pleased overall. Edmund took a breath, reviewed what he needed to do in his mind’s eye, and then repeated the series one more time. It involved moving smoothly from point to point in a ritual compass. Movements first, words later. As Uncle Alexander had pointed out, the Latin was likely to be less trouble. Edmund was perfectly competent both in the classical form and in the mediaeval form preferred in most of Albion’s rituals.
Once Edmund made it through the repetition, Edmund finished the last bow of the sequence, then stood. Uncle Alexander gave him a nod. “All correct. I will say that various parts of your education thus far have given a number of gifts. In my day, rather a lot of people were more gangly about it. I suspect it’s a combination of Isembard’s training, bohort, and your own work with pavo.”
“I was thinking possibly also the hawks, perhaps?” He’d been able to pick up falconry again last summer. It was one of several reasons he’d not taken up any of the invitations to reading parties. He’d be gone for six weeks of this summer, but that left ten to be at Ytene and in the mews and stables every day.
