Page 40 of Apt to be Suspicious
The bath was entirely tidy. His things were out, soap and such. He used the same shaving kit as Dad did, from a magical maker. That meant far less chance of cuts, while looking like a non-magical straight razor. Everything else was tidy and neatly stored, with no dirty socks or soiled linens anywhere in sight. The door next to the bath was cracked open, just enough for her to see it was a bedroom, but of course she wouldn’t pry. Not when Edmund could likely see exactly what she was doing.
Once she was in the sitting room, she was even more disconcerted. She didn’t know entirely what she’d expected from the furnishings. It seemed improbable it’d all be gilt and whatever. But some part of her had assumed it’d be like that, to go with his tailored clothes and manner and all the posh. Instead, he had a comfortable sofa in a muted green, two easy chairs in a warm brown— seating for four, and a low table between them. There was a desk along one short wall, with a small stack of books and a fountain pen and paper. It had one of those devices for holding a book open so it could be used without needing a spare hand, made of a polished and well-loved wood.
By the time he came back from the little kitchen, she was on one chair, knees pressed together, trying to suppress the desire to go look at his bookshelves. There were two sets, one on either side of the fireplace, a good three-quarters full. Each had a bouquet, nothing fancy but cheerfully bright, like the flowers in his workroom had been. They were the only obvious decorative touch besides a few photographs in frames.
As he came back, Edmund looked rather faded somehow. She wasn’t sure if it was the light— the sitting room had no windows. But he had a tray with two plates, each with their meal on it, a teapot, and a small green vial. Once he set it on the table, he turned and went to his desk, pausing to write something in a book— his journal, presumably. He’d done that earlier, too, when they returned the punt, but she wasn’t sure why.
Then he turned and came back. “Pardon, I didn’t ask what tea you preferred. I’ve got a fruit tisane in the pot, or I can get a bit of black.” Pen peered at him, and did not have the heart to ask for the black, out of his ration.
“The fruit is fine.” The meal was novel to her. She didn’t have the funds to eat at one of the restaurants often, though she knew how they worked. A set menu, a few choices, but not drawing on ration cards. Edmund had selected roast and potatoes, along with some carrots and peas and a small slice of sponge cake. Pen had gone along with the same for the ease of it. The proportions, however, were more generous than the meat ration in hall. Pen waited while Edmund set out the dishes, let the tisane steep, and then drained the vial, capping it neatly before setting it back on the tray.
“A restorative.” He looked a bit more alive again. Not as vibrant as he had been the last time they were on a punt, but far less like a sepia photograph, a generation or so old. He leaned back, rubbing his nose, and then said, “May I eat first, while I think about where to begin this conversation properly?”
“It seems churlish to say no.” Which didn’t mean she didn’t want to. She wanted more information. But also, she was in his home, on his terms, and it wasn’t like rushing him would actually do any good. “Do you need a reiteration of my questions?”
“What magic I used, the ethics of doing so, what gives me the right, and to add a further point, why I care.” Edmund tackled his plate, after adding, “Two of those are reasons to be under this warding. Done by people who know what they’re doing. Which is not me, to be clear. Friend of the family, though you know him too. Professor Fortier. And Aunt Kate, Uncle Giles’ wife. She’s a Captain in the Guard.”
That at least gave her something to think about while he ate, that those people had done that kind of help. And while she ate, too. The food was, she had to admit, an excellent idea.
She’d become so used to the limits and the way she was always slightly hungry. Not perhaps in a purely physical sense. She’d read all the notices about it and the dietary provisions. But hungry in a more spiritual sense. She tucked that away for a discussion with Grandfather at some point. He’d enjoy it. It was rare to have abundance in food these days. That was the way to put it.
They ate quietly. Edmund ate faster than Pen did, as she enjoyed the taste of it. He paused to pour the tea, and once he’d done that, said, “Shall I begin?”
“If you like.” Pen felt even more off-centre than before.
“All right.” Edmund set his plate aside. He’d eaten most of it somehow. “I have been considering how much to trust you, and what to trust you with. You understand that problem, I’m certain.” He looked at her, and Pen did not know how to read that look, or how to interpret any of the rest of it. It was as if they’d shifted into base three or seven or thirteen or some such, rather than base ten, and none of her training applied the same way. The problem was that she did understand.
“This isn’t a matter of national security, though. No spies or anything.” She wasn’t naïve enough to think the threat was gone, of course. Maybe from Germany, but there were plenty of other countries with an interest in Britain and her deeds.
“Mmm.” Edmund made an utterly neutral noise, but he had made a noise rather than silence, and that would take interpretation. “It is not just about me, the thing I’m deciding to tell you a little about.”
Pen opened her mouth, then closed it. Then she asked, “Can you tell me who it’s about? Another student? A don?”
“No.” Then he let out a little sigh. “I am trusting my intuition here. You know I am apprenticing in Ritual magic with Uncle Alexander.”
“Ritual magic and a range of languages. I’m not actually clear how much of your list has to do with Greats and how much with your apprenticeship,” Pen admitted.
“To be honest, that’s a troublesome question. Latin and Greek, for Greats. But Uncle Alexander has also set me up to go to lectures and have pointed and entirely civil arguments with the relevant dons, mostly in Arabic. Which I do, because Uncle Alexander has reason for it. Well, being Uncle Alexander, probably at least three reasons, maybe five or seven.”
“Isn’t the proper term for that sort of thing ‘academic dialogue’ or debate or something, rather than argument?” Pen asked.
This, bizarrely, made Edmund laugh and then grin broadly and take a breath, like he was about to let hounds slip free and go on the hunt. “Ah, that’s the crux of it. Uncle Alexander is also a master of Naming. Not a magical art commonly practised in Albion. There are two others with some grasp of it, besides him. Occasionally other visitors.”
“Three and you,” Pen said slowly. “And what does Naming do?”
“That is the sort of conversation that will keep you out well after your curfew.” Edmund said. “I am open to considering that discussion. But not tonight. Not if you’ve other questions, which you do. And which I do. But that is what I was using in the conversation. In its subtler forms, Naming permits one to, mmm. Hear the thread of truth in what someone says. It’s not the same as the truth magics— insert six hours of lecture and demonstration about the differences here. The truth magics are largely a ritual form. They have tests and scaffolding created over the years for use by a range of people. They can enforce that what is spoken is what the speaker understands as true. Naming is much more intimate than that.”
Pen let out a huff of a breath. “What does it tell you about me?”
“That I should have this conversation with you, rather than brushing it off. I know how to do that, of course. I learned at Mama’s knee, and Papa’s. Uncle Alexander is also a master of not answering questions he doesn’t wish to entertain.” Edmund met her eyes, spread his hands, and then looked away, reaching to spear and eat one of the lingering pieces of carrot.
“So the entire time you were talking to Phipps, you were what? Doing magic?” Pen frowned, because it hadn’t seemed like that. Though it explained why he’d looked faded.
“Mmm.” It was the noncommittal sound again, but she was perhaps getting better at interpreting. Or more willing to guess. She thought it was a slightly more positive noise.
“Oh.” Pen frowned. “And the Pact doesn’t prevent you from doing that?”
“Think of it like what— you didn’t take Protective magics, did you? Some of the calisthenic exercises talk about it, first or second year. How someone stands can tell you a fair bit about them. The tone of their voice or the way they space out words. All of us read that to some degree, even if we focus on different parts. Some people focus more on what’s actually said or the words chosen. Some on the intonation or the register. I’m just using a different layer. Well, not just. It’s a lot of work, yes. I’m also not nearly competent at it, in that sense. What I get is fairly reliable. Well, I’m checking some of it with someone else, and I want to hear what you thought about what you heard. But I don’t want to put too much weight on the magic. Also, it’s exhausting.”
