Page 29 of Apt to be Suspicious
She ducked her head. “I was going to leave the letter, but then I saw you. I’m sorry, I got distracted last night by something in our quad. “
It wasn’t anything she actually said, but it was something in the rhythm of the words that caught his attention. Uncle Alexander had told him straight out to pay attention to that instinct. “Something odd?”
She met his eyes, then nodded. “Yes.”
“Look,” Edmund held out his hand. “I’m glad to take the letter and make sure it gets to Uncle Giles and Aunt Cammie promptly. I’m going home overnight for the May Day rites, but I’ll be back Sunday. I’ve also noticed an odd thing or two. Perhaps we might compare notes when I get back on Sunday? A conversation, that’s all.”
The question visibly startled her. She flushed then met his eyes. “In exchange for your taking that letter? If that’s what you ask in return, certainly.” All of her words were polite and cordial, but Edmund couldn’t entirely sort out what else was going on.
“For my part,” Uncle Alexander’s voice was his smoothest, the one he used for all his best diplomacy, “I’m glad to confirm that Giles and Cammie will be at Ytene for May Day. Edmund can make sure they get their mail promptly. Ah, here we are. Edmund, I want to hear your thoughts on the lecture tomorrow. I am off home to listen to a recording of Berlioz’s Les Troyens.”
That comment left Edmund flat-footed, staring after him. It was an entirely pointed comment about how Papa had first approached Uncle Alexander for a particular plot. And it was, of course, the sort of thing that Miss Stirling could not decipher, no matter how hard she tried. It was, in that way, a code, one of the sorts that depended entirely on shared knowledge rather than maths.
When Edmund turned back, Miss Stirling looked bemused. It was just the two of them together, a few feet from the portal, now. “I’ve a journal for sorting out the details.”
“I’ll write.” That question, he wanted to think about. She’d likely not be comfortable coming to his digs, but the workroom was a possibility. “There’s something where I think your eye for a puzzle might be useful. Nothing to worry about.” Of course, saying that made people worry. She looked at him rather sceptically, but then shrugged.
“I agreed, of course. And the letter— thank you for that. Even if it’s apparently no great bother.”
“The letter is my pleasure.” Then he heard the bells start chiming and muffled a curse. “Pardon. I’ve got work to finish up tonight, and it’s later than I thought.”
“Isn’t that always the way? Sunday, then. Good evening.” Before Edmund could say more, she disappeared off toward the JCR. He took a breath and turned in the other direction, to go back to his workroom and finish up his essay.
Chapter 20
Sunday, May 2nd on the Isis
“Here, Miss Stirling.” Pen heard the voice before she saw him. Carillon was standing by a punt on the far side of Magdalen Bridge. She crossed the bridge, coming down to meet him. She had been dubious when he proposed a punt, but she did not know how to argue with him about it.
He looked as if he never did anything other than go punting. Carillon could have been one of those pictures that got pointed out to visitors as a landmark of Oxford. He had on a brown sports coat, like he’d grown up wearing it, darker trousers, a green jumper or vest under it, and a brown hat that matched the coat. Entirely too perfect, and it made her annoyed all over again. It was warm enough he might take off the jacket and roll up his sleeves. That would be even worse.
She’d dithered over what to wear besides ‘sensible shoes’. Those were easy. She only owned one pair of less practical ones. Pen could manage her own warming charms, so she hadn’t had to worry too much about that. In the end she’d gone for a skirt, blouse, and cardigan jumper, with a cloak that had been her aunt’s over that. It wasn’t an elegant outfit. Audrey would have tutted over it. But she hadn’t told Audrey. Pen hadn’t wanted to explain who she was meeting. And at least the cooler temperatures made it less likely that people who knew her would be out near the river.
“Good afternoon.” Pen took a breath. “I hope—” Then she couldn’t figure out how to say the rest of it. There was a man at the other end of the building.
“Good afternoon.” Carillon gave her a slight bow. “How about we get ourselves out on the river before we settle into talking? I've got a spot in mind that should be quiet today. There’s a hamper there, just mind you don’t tip it over.”
“A hamper.” That seemed a ridiculous extravagance, given rationing. She tried to keep the scepticism out of her voice.
“Oh, first things first. I passed along your note. You’ll have something written tomorrow or the day after, but I’ve a message for you as well. Here we go.” He offered his hand for balance. Pen gave up and did the expected thing, letting him assist her into the punt. He gave her a minute to settle the cushions to her liking— he’d already put them in.
That done, he cast off from the dock, picking up the long pole and standing on the bottom of the boat as was Oxford’s proper custom. She thought he looked remarkably well. It wasn’t anything about the light, just that he seemed to be rudely glowing with vitality, as if everything else around him were slightly faded in comparison.
Pen had only ever been out on the river with other women. She found it changed the dynamic somewhat. She was capable enough on a punt. Pen had never lost the pole or risked sliding into the water. But Carillon, to add to the long enumerated list of annoyances, made the whole thing look easy. She felt the hardest part was getting the punt away from the hire. Now, there weren’t crowds of people around, barely an audience at all. But he guided them smoothly away from the dock and into the centre of the river.
“How far are we going?” Pen asked before glancing down to consider the complexity of the hamper.
“I thought down the Cherwell to the Isis; there’s a spot past the boathouses that should be quiet. Do you need to be back at any particular point? That would take us two hours, maybe three.”
It was rather longer than she’d expected, though it explained the need for a hamper, beyond the usual tradition of it. Pen took a breath. “To be honest, I wasn’t sure what to expect. Do you need to get back?”
“Oh, you needn’t worry I’ll keep you out too late. I have two translations and a bit of reading to do tonight. The hamper has some Pimm’s and various things from home.”
Pen refused to open the hamper for him. “Where’s home? No, wait.” She should know this.
“Ytene. The northern New Forest.” There was something warm, like velvet, in his voice, and she’d never heard anyone talk about a place like that. “It’s been in the family for ages.”
She did not know how to interpret that in the context of a place that had been called the New Forest since just after the Conquest. It could mean that long. It could mean a century, three, or anywhere in between. She certainly didn’t know how to ask.
