“Caught her attention, too? Was he difficult?” Vega swallowed, feeling a rush of relief. “Yes, please. Give me twenty minutes to change.”
“Yes’m.” Roger promptly disappeared. Madam Helena’s staff were all skilled as could be. Getting out without being spotted was a thing most of the performers needed now and again. That meant that Vega made it from the stage door to Fred’s cab without a worry, back to her rooms.
She kept feeling like someone was watching her, or at least aware of her, in a way that felt entirely uncomfortable and worrisome. The sort of way that meant that she ought to talk to her aunts and uncles, and yet, where could she possibly start? Once she was home, she brought up all the warding, checked it twice, then again for good measure, before burying herself in blankets and pillows.
Chapter 12
FEBRUARY 27TH IN LONDON
“Your noon, Mister Michaels.” Mrs Malden knocked briefly, and Farran looked up.
“Thank you. Feel free to go off to lunch. I’ll lock up if I leave.” She turned away with a sharp nod, and then Vega was standing there. And while she was feigning everything ordinary, Farran was certain something wasn’t right. Her asking to reschedule from half-four to as early in the day as he could manage had certainly been a clue. She’d telephoned the office at ten, while Farran had been down the street. Fortunately, he’d planned to spend the afternoon working on notes for the catalogue, and that could be rearranged without too much trouble.
Now Farran stood. “Please, come in. I’ve nothing out on the desk. I could fetch some tea?”
Her mouth curled up slightly. “I could use a cup.” Vega permitted him to take her coat, and he hung it up as she sat down. Getting the tea took a few minutes, and he brought the tray back. As he set it down, he realised she was far more plainly dressed. Her hair was up in an entirely ordinary sort of braid coiled low at the nape. Farran went back to close the door, thenbring up the warding. As he sat down, he cleared his throat quietly. “You’ve had a problem.”
“It’s that visible?” She looked over his shoulder, out the window— an undistinguished view, just the wall of the next building. Farran was certainly not senior enough to have a good view.
He shrugged. “Perhaps not to most people. But that’s some of how I do my work, sensing the state of things. Also, I grew up mostly in a house with a number of lodgers. Getting a sense for who’s in a mood, for whatever reason, makes things easier.”
She blinked at him once. “Oh?”
“Family home, a little outside Oxford. Big place, and when my uncle was raising me, money was scant. We took in lodgers, mostly people working at the university, a few widows. People who preferred a bit of company at meals, ideally intelligent, but their own space and less noise. These days, we don’t need to do that as much, but we still enjoy it.” Farran considered his antecedents and added, “We being me, my uncle, and our housekeeper.”
There was a silence. “Not something you usually explain?”
“It’s not usually terribly relevant,” Farran pointed out. “But yes, I noticed you seem uncomfortable. Though asking to see me sooner was also a tip-off. May I help with something, then?”
She rocked forward in the chair for a moment, as if she were about to stand, then took a breath. “I’m sure you can’t.”
“But you’re here.” Farran took a breath and kept himself steady. Master Philemon had actually talked about this a fair bit in their training. Items, especially enchanted ones, that had been in a family for many years could raise potent emotions. People needed to sell, to raise funds, or they knew it was a good idea. That didn’t make it easy. Plenty of his training had been about how to handle the people in all stages of the process. Itwas as much part of his work as every bit of the art history and materia knowledge that had been poured into his brain.
There was a long silence, then she hummed something under her breath before speaking again. “It sounds like something out of a pulp novel. I met an American man on a bridge, Blackfriars, and he turned up at the club Saturday night.”
“And you had an odd feeling about him.” Farran could see that. “You’re a performer. You’ve learned how to read someone’s mood, at the least, if not their magic. What did he do?”
“Send a note to my dressing room saying he’d like to call. And I—” Her shoulder twitched. “I sang some of my best, Saturday night. I didn’t last night, I stayed home. I don’t know what to do now, who to talk to.”
“Why not the Guard?” Farran said, first. It was the sensible thing to say.
“There’s nothing solid there. He approached me while I was on the bridge, the way many men have approached me over the years. Or not quite the same, but there’s no single thing that’s obviously different. He was a trifle forward, but he kept his hands to himself.” She glanced up, meeting Farran’s eyes now. “Do you know how that goes?”
“Oh, yes. Not something I do myself, but I have colleagues who make that sort of thing work for them. And I’ve had it done to me a few times, by women, hoping for an edge.” Farran did his best to keep his voice even.
“Not something you cared for?” Vega’s voice was lighter now, less of a sharp edge to it. “No, that’s too personal a question, isn’t it? Now I’m being forward.”
Farran shrugged once. “Whatever my personal situation, that’s not the way I’d choose to begin something. You either, I gather.”
“No.” The comment put her in slightly better humour, perhaps. “I wasn’t sure he was magical. Not out there, with the noise of the Thames and the traffic and such.”
“And while one can ask, circuitously, asking has consequences. And Americans have a different set of cues, and they’re not anchored in the Pact the same way.” Farran nodded. “So you made your excuses and left. I assume he doesn’t know where you live, or you would think about the Guard.”
Vega shook her head. “I’ve rooms in a lodging house, I don’t do my own cooking. I take a cab to and from the club, though I could walk it.”
“But not late at night, in your dress shoes.” Farran said. “Quite.” He picked up his tea, adding a sugar cube. That gave her the cue to add a bit of cream and sugar to her own, the spoon clinking as she stirred a few times. “What do you think I can help with?”
“Do you think he’s—” Vega sighed, breathing out over her cup. “I can’t help wondering if he’s trying to find the same thing. It’s a ridiculous idea. It’s a venerable city, with thousands of things someone might find interesting.” She gestured toward the window. “There are thousands of other shiny objects, beautiful women, even singers out there. Why me?”
