Farran shrugged. “Down that end, there’s supposed to be a well. With the flood in January, I’m wondering if it has water in it.” That had been before Farran arrived in London. There’d been considerable worry about damage to the ground floor of the Tate in art circles.
“And then they sealed it up, at some point?” Vega asked before she nodded. “I’m curious about the well. And how far this goes back. Do you think it goes back to the Romans or the Anglo-Saxons?”
“None of the sources I looked at were sure, but I didn’t have that long to look, just an hour on Thursday. They used a different entrance then, and they sealed it up. Go on, let’s go around the wall, maybe, to the bar and the chamber behind?” Farran gestured for her to go first, if she wanted.
The cavern had many and rather intricate moments of amusement. There were sprawls of graffiti, of course. As was theusual way of graffiti, or at least as Farran understood it, most of it wasn’t terribly exciting: partial names, initials, and such. But he saw one recommending the ginger brandy at the bar, written, so it said, by one J. Johnson the day before Queen Victoria’s wedding. The walls had drawings, too, some decidedly verging on the Hellfire club sort of Satanic design, a few crude.
By the bar, there was far more clutter of bottles, but also some hanging lights. Those had a faint sense of magic to them, enough to make Farran fairly sure they’d been lit that way at one time. The smaller chamber beyond felt rather like Uncle Cadmus’s forge, honestly, like the closeness was a virtue. But also that it was not a place Farran wanted to linger, like there was something sacred there, but not for him. “The well?” His voice came out a little unevenly.
“The well.” Vega turned to look at him. “This way, right?” She gestured across the cavern in the correct direction. He nodded, and they picked their way over the layer of uneven rubble on the ground, to an archway and another tunnel. Once they were there, she asked, more quietly. “Problem with the space?”
“Oh, no. I like enclosed spaces, actually. Just that, there, felt more… I don’t know. Like it wasn’t mine to disturb.” Farran shrugged, trying to pass it off as a minor fit of nerves.
There was silence for several steps. “You too? Oh, good.” Then she added, more conversationally. “I feel a tug from here, definitely. Do you know where the well is?”
“Yes. I don’t know how much water is usually in it.” They went along, the path twisting a couple of times, but with no further openings. Maybe fifty or sixty feet along, they came out in a room, about twice as long as it was wide, with a well shaft visible. Vega stopped about five feet from the well.
“May I sing? I don’t think— I don’t think what we’re looking for is there. But I think something is. Does that make any sense at all?”
“Enough.” Farran considered. “What will the singing do, please?”
“Bring up what’s down there, the specific thing that’s tugging a little. It’s not dangerous, it won’t shift the water around. Just, um. Make whatever it is float like wood. Or, I suppose, if you like the image better, a bit of cork or a barrel?” Vega shrugged. “And just listen. Not the right time or place to ask you to keep a drone for me.”
“Of course.” Farran took a step to one side, so he could see both where they’d come from and the well, without twisting too much. Without further comment, Vega took a breath and cleared her throat, and then she sang. It was not in any language Farran knew, and he had that same feeling of something that wasn’t his to touch. Some people, that would have made them want to grab tight. He just wanted to stay where he was, not breathing, not moving, and experience it. It was a soap bubble, beautiful and fragile and momentary.
Whatever the song was, wherever it came from, it worked. He could see little ripples in the surface of the well, glimmering in the charmlight from the lanterns. Then there were more bubbles, something rising from the bottom. Vega kept singing, but now she took steps closer to the well, something out of a processional or maybe a particular dance. It reminded him, suddenly, of Vivian, the way she moved when doing particular magic. Farran shoved that thought down and away for some later and safer time.
When Vega reached the well, she bent over, a straight-backed bow from the waist, and then scooped something out of the water. She brought the song to an end, at what was obviously the conclusion of a chorus or something of the kind. Itwas as if everything shivered once, back into ordinary time and less magic, then Vega was coming back to him, as if this were an entirely ordinary Saturday afternoon.
“A ring.” There were still pitches in her voice, not quite sung, but not quite speech, either. “See, there’s the stone. May I take this back to my family when I have a chance?”
“You are the one who could get it back, so certainly.” Even if the laws about treasure troves had applied here, which he was fairly sure they didn’t, Farran would not argue. “If it needs to go somewhere else, I trust you’ll see to that?”
“Oh. Yes. That’s fair.” Now she seemed distracted. “We should— we should get back, surely? I don’t know how long it’s been.”
“And the air’s been well enough, just the two of us here, but I don’t want to test that too far.” Farran agreed. “This way, then.” Going back was a fair bit easier. Now it was just following the wall, keeping it to their left, until they wove back through the first passage again, and came out by the ladder. This time, Farran let Vega go first. It was a matter of a couple of minutes for them to make their farewells, and to find a cab to take them back to central London. An extravagance, possibly, but Farran certainly didn’t feel he had the stamina to navigate a walk to the river or to find the train or the Tube.
He left Vega at the corner nearest her hidden street, before telling the cabbie to go on toward his own rooms. Once back there, he washed up— the chalk dust had caked on his hands and around his ankles something awful— before falling into bed.
Chapter 21
MARCH 13TH IN TRELLECH
“Idon’t entirely understand.” Vega, frankly, was feeling rather dense and not at all in control of anything. She was standing in Trellech, which was fine. In a workroom at Ormulu, which should also have been fine. The ring they’d found on Saturday was sitting on the marble worktable. On the other side stood Farran, in the centre, and to one side, Master Ettis.
The older man opened his mouth, then considered. “You explain, please, Farran.” He glanced at Vega, then added, “I think you were doing a better job than I was managing, actually.” That was another sentence that Vega couldn’t decide how to weigh properly. If it had been one of her aunts or her own apprenticeship, it would have been at least partly a test. But Farran didn’t seem to be concerned. He shifted his weight, glanced at Vega, and then focused back on the ring.
“The ring is similar to a number of surviving Anglo-Saxon rings, though simpler in design than some. Made of bronze, it has a knot work pattern, and a small garnet. I am not a talisman maker, obviously. We can refer out to a specialist for appraisal. But I think it might perhaps be that which caused the dualsensation of the ring in the well. It is both from the time period under consideration, and a combination of metals that would fit within the parameters.” Farran hesitated, then added, with good humour, “At least if you squint. Thaumaturgical definitions are always a hair imprecise.”
The way he put it made Vega feel better. She’d been staring at the ring once she’d got home, because she had felt something from it, down in the cave. And yet, once it was cleaned up, it obviously wasn’t iron. It didn’t feel like iron, even under the gilt layer. And so, by note, she’d asked Farran to arrange for someone else to appraise it, properly, with the tools that would best suit.
Master Ettis nodded. “We would be glad to do some additional conservation work. There’s a standard fee scale for that, I can give you a card. We’d also be glad to inquire if there might be a suitable auction or private buyer interested. Such pieces have a certain body of those interested. Especially given the location and provenance.”
“I would like to think about it, first, please. And to check with my family records, before making any decisions. Beyond, of course, today’s consultation fee.” Vega gestured. “Would you be able to wrap it up safely for me? Are there any particular considerations for care?”
Master Ettis flicked a finger at Farran, who stepped aside, going to a side door, and looking for something. A box, presumably. As Farran did that, Master Ettis said, “There’s nothing here that indicates that it should not travel by portal, for example. Though that’s relatively rare in the period, there being so few portals at the time.”
Vega made herself nod pleasantly. The portals of the time had almost entirely been in Fatae hands, her Grandmothers and their far-ranging kin. The thing that had been nagging her is that the ring had a hint of that feel to it. When Farran came backwith a small velvet-covered box, she nodded. “I’ll take good care of it, of course. And I appreciate your time and expertise. Both of you. I’ll stop by the Scali and have them make the payment arrangements, separate from the work Farran has been doing for me.” Vega took a breath, trying to figure out how to say what she wanted. “I have been very pleased both with his skill and his dedication to the research problem. I hope it hasn’t interfered with his other work.”