Vega put her hands in her lap, mostly to cover how she felt, a shiver of something powerful that she didn’t understand. “You can’t have access to all that sort of thing.”
“No, but again, there’s a finite number of items on those sorts of lists. If it’s entirely unknown, then that suggests some things about Mister Vandermeer. And there are only so many items that are on those lists that fit particular ways. The age, the locations it’s been in, the approximate size.”
“And I suppose it is neither a gigantic sword possibly named Caliburn, or whatever the grail looked like, or any of those,” Vega said, though she put it that way mostly to give herself more time to think. “But you’re saying the next step would be a fair bit of research?”
Farran shrugged slightly. “Well. As I said, not an expert in this sort of specific thing. But wandering around London hoping to trip over it seems rather poor odds. Being able to narrow down both where it might be, and if there’s anything that might allow someone to focus on it. Thaumaturgical identification by some specific feature, if the object has a name— though honestly, the research on that is dubious, I think. Triangulationin a defined area might work, but that involves knowing where it might be.”
“That is definitely not in the pulp stories. Not nearly so many libraries.” Vega shook her head, feeling more and more out of her depth, now. These were reasonable points. That was the thing. What was her family doing, just handing her this project with absolutely no further detail or support, or much of anything?
“Exactly.” Farran fell silent, and the silence drew out, increasingly awkward. “Are you sure this isn’t a matter for the Guard or the Penelopes or something of the kind? I could put you in touch with, well. My uncle’s lady friend.”
“No, thank you.” Vega drew herself back, moving to stand. “Look, I need to talk to my family. I’ll let you know if I want to proceed.” She hesitated. “It’s fine if you’re at the club, it’s not mine, after all. And you have good manners. Just— I can’t. I need to.”
Farran immediately stood, perhaps because of those quite good manners, but he didn’t crowd her. “Of course, as you wish. You can write me here, or in the journal, whichever you prefer. I’ll see the post promptly, except for Saturday or Sunday.” He didn’t move to help her with her coat, which was just as well. She shrugged into it, then went out. Farran followed, but only so far as to see her to the door.
Chapter 14
FEBRUARY 29TH
“Well, now, I thought this afternoon went rather well. And privately, I had several compliments about your work. I am not at all surprised, but it is pleasant to hear one’s own evaluation proved out.” Master Philemon settled down in his hotel room, gesturing for Farran to take the other seat. They’d just come from a tour round three of the four key auction houses in this project, and Master Philemon had declared it time for tea.
Tea in private, of course, which meant conversation to go with it. On the other hand, the tea looked delightful, a combination of tiny sandwiches and a tiered display of sweets. Farran nodded, taking one chair while Master Philemon poured out the tea. “Sir.”
“To be specific, because we do revel in the details, don’t we?” Master Philemon was in a good mood, apparently. “You were commended for your attention to those details. Also your ability to discern the line between when you should speak up and when you should defer. And particularly your ability to deal withseveral of the more difficult personalities with grace.” He set the cup down. “Did Alastor Higgs really have three people in tears last week?”
“Three that I know of. Might well have been four or five,” Farran said. He’d had that sharp tongue turned on him. But his first failed apprenticeship with Master Tambleton had apparently given him the gift of enduring that with grace, despite everything else it had been.
Being scolded and torn to shreds for something that wasn’t actually his fault or his doing didn’t have the same effect anymore. He hadn’t argued, of course. That was a way to make everything worse, and with people other than Mister Higgs besides. But it meant Farran hadn’t needed to go hide in a hole or a box room or the very back corner of whatever storage room was furthest away.
“I gathered he didn’t get a rise out of you. An appropriate apology on that one piece about the vase.” Master Philemon chuckled agreeably. “That’s far better than most manage. Here, take your sandwiches first. You didn’t have the lunch out.”
Master Philemon had indeed had lunch out, a rather sumptuous one, at one of the clubs. He’d been hosted by one of the heirs of the estate being auctioned off, and they’d come back from lunch a good forty-five minutes later than expected. Forty-five minutes later than the buffer Master Philemon had planned, that was. Farran shook his head. “I hope I am seen as open to correction on matters of fact or evaluation, sir. But simply being shouted at...” He shrugged, and then said what he’d been thinking of. “After Master Tambleton, it’s harder to get a rise out of me.” Then he reached out for one of the small plates and took two sandwich halves to start, one salmon paste, the other ham and mustard.
Master Philemon considered. “Well, I’m glad there was some benefit then. Having the fortitude and the grace to deal with thedifficult personalities will get you remarkably far in this line of work. I know I’ve said that, but it continues to be true.” He took his own sandwiches. “How do you think things are going?”
“There’s certainly plenty to keep me busy, and for weeks to come.” Farran considered. “I have some questions about specific pieces after talking through it today. That silver.”
“I’d noticed you were biting your tongue. Go on, then, or does it need your notes and sketches?” Master Philemon looked amused. “And I’d like to talk about the spoon, too.”
“I can talk through it, sir.” Farran took long enough to finish the salmon paste half, then cleared his throat. “I know the current analysis, and what we know of the provenance, suggests Dutch, sir. But it is possible it’s American, instead?”
“What makes you say that?” Master Philemon leaned forward slightly. “We agree it’s not actively magical, yes?”
“Yes, sir. Though there’s one aspect,” Farran caught himself before he digressed. “The maker’s mark is badly faded. Or damaged.” As if someone had tried to obscure it previously. “But the feel in the hand is much closer to that piece from Lewis Feuter we had through Ormulu eighteen months ago.” He shrugged slightly. “There’s an echo in the metal. It sounds in the head more like New Amsterdam than Amsterdam.” Punning, of course, on the original name for New York City.
Philemon nodded. “I haven’t been able to decide, and we got precious little time with it today. I’ll see about asking if it can have some further scrutiny. Do you think it’s anything that would dramatically change the value? Other than, I agree, that having an accurate provenance is important.”
“I think it would depend on the buyer. And some of the American buyers might be interested, if there’s a tie there. They do have money to spend.” Farran pointed that out.
“And the other part?” Master Philemon gestured for Farran to eat, obviously about to go on. “Your touch on that is a greathelp. We can’t just tell them that the resonance of the materia suggests something else, of course, but it gives us an excuse to dig further into the records.”
Farran took advantage of that to have a bite of the ham and mustard sandwich before setting the plate down. “The other part, sir, is that while it’s not inherently designed as a magical object, I’m fairly certain it’s been used in ritual magic previously. There’s that tremolo.” That was the best way Farran had to describe it. Master Philemon had been clear that each person had their own preferences in such things. Farran heard it, an echo of it, a sound so faint that any background noise could disrupt it, and yet it was always there for any object of note. Master Philemon got waves of colour, a synaesthesia effect.
Master Philemon tilted his head, considering. “I could see that. I’d need to handle it more. I can do that tomorrow. Not recently, though? The ritual, I mean.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t have enough points of comparison, though.” That was the trouble. It was a nebulous feeling to start with, and the strength of it changed over time, depending on the material, the circumstances of the making, the history of the piece. “Maybe fifty years ago? Maybe a century.”
“Which also raises the question of the actual provenance.” The piece had supposedly come into the collection seventy years ago, via a dealer whose name had been lost. “I’ll have a look at some of the records. The spoon? Or did you have something to ask first?”
