“There are versions all over London. But there have been statues here since the Tudors. They’d be taken out for processions, nothing wrong with a good procession,” Farran considered. “How old do you think these are? Or did you look?”
“I didn’t.” She said that first, then thought about it, trying to get a sense of it from the sounds she heard underneath all the clutter of the everyday noise. Not Tudor, certainly. That was newer. There was harpsichord in there, and definitely a hint of a fugue played on a great pipe organ. Not her usual run of instruments, but certainly one she knew and knew about. “The first—” She hesitated, almost saying the first half. “First decade or two of the 18th century?”
“Oh, grand.” Farran seemed honestly delighted by it. “1709. May I ask why you said that?”
“Organ. An organ fugue. A bit of Bach, maybe, or someone of the kind.” She said it without guarding it. Something in this conversation was rather like the conversations she had had all her life with aunts and uncles and her parents and cousins. Somehow, this man she didn’t know made a space for her to learn and inquire, rather than be certain.
He nodded once. “Carved of wood. The previous round had been eaten away. All right, that’s very promising. Shall we go? I think they need to let people in for whatever’s happening in here next.” There were, in fact, several people lurking near the door, staff wanting to bring in refreshments. As they slipped out the door, Farran gestured down toward the south and the river.
They talked little on the way, and Vega appreciated that. The river was an entirely different cacophony. There was noiseand clamour in the magic, in her ears, and in her nose, the stink of the river. Farran didn’t ask her to stop and focus on anything. But when they got a bit of the way east, where they had more space around them, he said, “It’s a bit much for me, too. But the Thames is the heart of the city. Rivers know things different from what the land knows. And the Thames gives up her treasures, regularly. Do you think there’s a chance that what you’re looking for might be like that?”
Vega had to stop walking to think about that, wrinkling her nose. “I can’t make out anything individual there at all. I’m fairly sure trying will give me a headache.”
“Not something to try without suitable supplies, then.” Farran said it, making it seem like a reasonable and practical objection. “With your permission, I could put a note out that I’d be interested in hearing about anything unusual that comes up, that looks like an item. Neither of us needs to sort through a list of, oh, rather a lot of awful stuff that ends up in the Thames.”
“You’d do that?” Vega cleared her throat. “Yes, if you don’t mind. And if the fee’s not out of keeping with things so far.”
Farran spread his hands. “If, when we’re done here, you’d like to engage me for other work, I’m sure we can come to a sensible agreement. It’s not a lot of time or energy, probably, it slips in with what I’m already doing.” Then he shrugged, not pressing the point. “Here, we don’t have time to go all through the Tower today. I’m more interested in the walls and then the Roman wall. There’s only a bit of it still visible.”
The Tower’s music was unyielding, even when they circled up along the north wall. There was terror there, and something that was about strict order, and she couldn’t make sense of it. The wall, though, that made slightly more sense. There was a definite split. “Some of that is older, yes?”
“The bottom - see the lines of red tile, running horizontal? That, I gather, is the Roman section. The upper portion is mediaeval. Can you hear the distinction?”
Given that cue, yes, she could. The upper portion, if she stood on her toes, had what she’d expect from the period. Reeds vibrating, a drum, crumhorns and whatever other instruments fit. The older section, though, that had echoes in it. It wasn’t the sound of the music, exactly, though the music was less well formed here, like her mind couldn’t produce an equivalent near as smoothly. Couldn’t translate it, perhaps that was the framework to use. But she could hear the shift and also feel it. “Yes.” Then she let out a little sound. “Pardon. That’s a bit much.”
“We’ve done a lot today.” Farran considered. “I’d ask if you wanted to go to tea, but I’m thinking I should hail a cab and let you do whatever you find suitable after this sort of thing.”
“Perhaps later this week? If you’re free in the afternoon on the Saturday or Sunday?” Vega rubbed her temple; she did have a headache coming on after all.
Farran looked a little bemused. “I promised I’d see my uncle on Saturday. Well, Friday to Sunday. Monday next?”
“Monday next.” Vega cleared her throat. “I think I would like to see if you would consult further, and to tell you a little more of what I know. If you’d plan for that.”
“Oh!” Farran sounded more comfortable with that. “I’ll send a note around with the options, then, so you have time to think through whatever you’d like to do. And if you’d like to suggest somewhere else to meet, glad to consider it.”
Three minutes later, he’d tucked her into a cab. She looked back to find him waiting and watching until the cab turned the corner, still unsure what to make of the entire experience.
Chapter 10
FEBRUARY 25TH AT THEBES
It had been a quiet morning. Farran had turned up at Thebes Friday night, after a later train than usual. He’d caught the tail end of supper, and of course Lena had set a plate aside for him. He’d wanted to catch up more with Uncle Cadmus, and to have a look at some references in the library. But he’d been yawning repeatedly by nine, and he’d been asleep by half past.
Saturday morning was quiet— Uncle Cadmus liked time to read on his own— and Farran had gone for a walk through the grounds. February was never the most appealing time on the estate, but there was something about the quiet resting of the woods and the plants that Farran found extremely satisfying. It was like looking at an item that had been on some remote estate, barely handled or noticed. Then someone paid attention to it, and there was a moment where it became vivid again, at least in the mind’s eye.
February was like that, the instant before the vividness came back. Or at least it could be. The walk was also reassuring in other ways; that things were going well. He’d checked last night, and despite some wind, none of the old leaks had caused problems. The doors hadn’t rattled in a storm. Everything was tidy and tended to, the way Farran wanted it to be.
The walk had also given him time to think. That was both good and bad. The work with the auction houses was going well. Master Philemon had come out on the Thursday, to check, and had passed along a good report from nearly everyone. The exception was someone who was notorious for not noticing someone until they’d been around for twenty years, and there was nothing for it but time. Assuming Farran didn’t make some terrible error of judgement, at least.
After lunch, however, Uncle Cadmus and Vivian made it clear they’d be chatting with Farran for a bit, and there was the small procession up to Uncle Cadmus’s rooms. As always, Uncle Cadmus let Farran come to his actual question in his own time. That was something Farran loved, not being hurried. He could count on the fingers of one hand the times Uncle Cadmus had pushed or prodded, and he’d always had good reason.
To be fair, the thing about being a classicist was that it was easier to take the long view about almost everything. It was an approach that had served Farran well too. To be honest, short of the actual auction or imminent damage to a piece, there were very few actual crises in art. So there was the pouring of the tea, and the asking about the current gossip of the house and the residents, and a couple of Vivian’s latest projects. The ones she could talk about, of course. Vivian ran a private inquiry agency of sorts, working on particularly knotty problems. Even with Uncle Cadmus, there were plenty of things she didn’t talk about. But she’d had a few interesting queries recently.
Of course, there was the other side of her life. The thing about Vivian was that she was not entirely human, and that meant she had both a different perspective on some problems and different tools. Also, it had obligations, and that was part of what Farran was wondering about in the way Vega was committed to this project of her family’s. On an entirely practical level, it meant that Vivian spent about one week in fourdealing with many familial matters, magical and practical. By this point, now he’d had five or six years to observe, it involved a lot of meetings with people, a certain amount of dancing as a magical and ritual form, stunningly good food for the occasional feast, and a lot of resigned patience. Cousins, he gathered, did not make decisions quickly.
If you’d asked Farran when he was twenty, he’d have said Uncle Cadmus wouldn’t deal with that sort of thing well. But Uncle Cadmus seemed pleased for whatever time with Vivian he got, whatever they did in private. And it let him keep his own schedule much of the time. Farran rather envied that.
Auction work had more flexibility than a standard office job, or working in a shop, or anything like that. But it came in feast and famine. Long hours, longer the closer things got to a major sale or purchase. And then lighter ones, at other times, but with the perpetual sense that there was something he ought to be doing.
