Farran sighed, and then he stood up, wanting to walk a little, pacing behind the chair he’d been sitting in. Vivian didn’t discourage him. Finally, he paused, hands on the back of the chair. “How do I do that? What will they expect me to do?”
“You’ve some idea of that,” Vivian said. “Start there, and I’ll help you fill in the gaps.”
Farran considered what he knew. “You know me. I like to stay home. A good book, something to mend or fix. Bringing it back to how it was best.” It was how he thought about Thebes,this house, and about the greenhouses and outbuildings and the garden. It wasn’t perfection or newness he was reaching for with any of that, it was something more about the thing in use, tended well, able to do its work.
His work at Ormulu had something of the same feel. Not always, of course. It was harder to identify the work of a painting of someone’s long-dead dog or horse or great-aunt. Such paintings mattered, of course. They were art. But the person for whom it had mattered most wasn’t there to interact with it anymore.
Objects were easier, objects that could be used, because they still potentially had a use. Some, of course, were stuck in a glass case, never properly breathing again, never out in the world in however small a form. Now, as if prompted by the thought, he took a breath, then said, “It’ll involve going out. Bars, clubs, something like that.” He felt awkward at those sometimes, but he could manage most of it. “And probably a range of things to drink or take on offer.”
“Probably,” Vivian said, her voice entirely even. “I would like to make a gift to you of a suitable case of antidotes and such. All the common non-magical things, and a fair range for potions unless someone in those circles has a particularly clever alchemist I don’t know about. Yet.”
That made Farran snort. “Isn’t it part of your job to know about them?”
“There is always a first time someone does something questionable. That’s the problem with it. That first time gets people hurt or killed. And I do not wish that for you, for all sorts of reasons, not just Cadmus’s sake. And I do not wish it for your friends. I do not want Philemon to have to deal with it. Such things make him cranky. Though I’m sure he’ll have some cautions and stories for you. You’re a sensible young man. Just keep your head. Have your own cab fare home, know how to getback to the nearest portal, whatever that means for wherever you are.” She considered. “Would you do a day’s training with someone I can recommend to help you avoid pickpockets and theft?”
That was an entire line of difficulties Farran had not entirely considered. It happened in Trellech from time to time, but nothing that was a serious threat. He glanced at his uncle, but again, he knew what he was going to say. “Certainly. Though Master Philemon made it clear my expenses cover cabs and such. But I’m sure he’d give me time for your recommendation. Thursdays are best right now.”
“That is because he is a man with experience of the world. All right, I’ll set something up and let you know.” Vivian tapped her fingers. “That sorted, London is a city full of historical delights, along with the modern ones. You’ve been, you know it’s got a different feel magically. It’s not Trellech, all magical, but the London demesne is unique, in terms of the land magic.” She tapped a finger on the arm of her chair. “You likely won’t need an introduction to the Keeper of London, but if you do, let me know. I can arrange something with a little warning.”
“I don’t expect to come to that kind of attention, no.” The magical keeping of London’s land magic was a complex thing, from what Farran knew. But it wasn’t likely to be relevant to what he was doing. “And I assume he’s still quite busy, after the flooding on the seventh.” That had been horrid, far too many deaths and destruction, including damage to one of the museums.
Vivian pursed her lips. “True. You’ve looked at those maps? Beyond what’s in the papers?”
Farran nodded. “Part of Master Philemon’s portfolio. It’s affecting some of the conservator availability.”
Vivian nodded, then shifted the subject back to gentler things. “I think you’d enjoy spending an extended period there,long enough to get to know the place, to have a favourite route or pub or library or what have you. You are young, you should have a good time, in whatever form that takes. Just perhaps not all of them at home with a book.”
It made Farran laugh. Then he shook his head. “If that’s the way I should go about things, I will. Uncle?”
“Vivian has far more useful experience here than I do. I’ll worry a bit, but that’s mine to deal with. And you’ll have your journal and can write about what you get up to, yes?” Uncle Cadmus spread his hands, cheerfully resigned.
Farran nodded. That made it much easier. How Vivian had talked Uncle Cadmus into getting a journal, he wasn’t sure, but it made their physically distant relationship far easier to manage. He gathered they wrote pages and pages back and forth most weeks, so Uncle Cadmus was well in the habit of checking. “I promise I’ll be sensible. And I won’t be going for a week or three yet. Now, though.” He cleared his throat. “Can I go down and help Lena with the dishes and whatever she needs for tomorrow? I’d like to have my hands busy.”
“And she’ll be glad to see you. And have a chat when your hands aren’t busy with dishes.” That was the trick with signing. It made chatting while working harder.
Farran smiled. “Yes, Uncle.” Then he nodded once more and took himself out of the room, leaving the two of them talking quietly on the sofa.
Chapter 5
JANUARY 24TH IN LONDON
By Tuesday, Vega was no further along on the task. Her aunt and uncle had helpfully sent along a package of some reference materials, along with funds to get her started on what else she might need.
It was an interesting problem, but honestly, it really needed an archaeologist, not an astronomer. Or a singer. She was trained in two of those, but the archaeology was decidedly not one of them. She didn’t even know where to find an archaeologist. There had been a whole fuss with the Research Society, what, eighteen months ago now, so that was likely no use. The entire society had collapsed in a pile of scandal. Vega gathered it would be at least another year before the actual researchers were organised enough to be much help again.
Vega didn’t know anyone there to talk to. Even if she did, that was the sort of connection where going back to the aunts and uncles at the family estate would make more sense. Presumably, there was a good reason no one from the family had suggested that as a starting point.
So she had to go at the problem from a different direction. Logic suggested that if it were an artefact from the sixth century, then it would most likely be in the City or perhaps a few of theoutlying areas. She didn’t know which, but she remembered learning, back in her tutoring, that the city had spread out in several directions. In the end, she’d acquired several more detailed street maps. Then she’d gone to the library to see if she could borrow a couple of titles about antiquarian sites of interest, such as they were.
Tuesday’s weather was not terribly promising, chilly and overcast. But it meant that during the day, when other people were at work or whatever errands they might have, she might reasonably go have a look at some part of the city. Vega knew the areas she spent time in well enough, how to get from her rooms to the club or the places she ate or picked up groceries for a little light cooking. And she knew where the parks nearby were, even if the weather had not been entirely promising about spending much time in them when she was awake.
More or less at random, she’d decided on going down to Blackfriars Bridge. One of her books had commented that the place was thick with lore, including ghost stories. Those didn’t seem entirely relevant to what she was looking for. It wasn’t the original site of a bridge across the Thames, from what she gathered; there’d been a previous bridge on this spot from the 1760s. But that wasn’t much help. Far too recent.
And the family records wouldn’t be much help. Alcyone’s line favoured quiet dark places, with not many others around. Stars and a bit of river or lake that might attract a kingfisher, and few distractions. Vega’s love of the city, or at least of the music to be found in a city, puzzled a number of them. But to be fair to them, especially her parents, they’d supported her doing what she was doing. Some year in the future, she’d retire to the family estates, and enjoy that too, in a different way. But maybe not for a long while yet. Not until her apparent age got too out of sync with how long she’d been around. She had at least a decade yet, probably two if she moved around a little.
That music of the city, though, that made it easier to deal with the clatter and noise, on the days that she had to do that. Often, she did her shopping in the quiet bit of the middle afternoon, and then it was only getting to the club that was chaotic. Oh, there was plenty of noise and gossip at the club but that was all part of the larger song of the evening, and it didn’t jar Vega nearly as much. Maybe it was that there was a purpose to it, too.
Now, she was considering what she was hearing, as much as what she was seeing, and there was a thread of something that confused her. It wasn’t exactly a sour note, but it was a note that didn’t fit. The sound, over the bridge, had some woodwinds in it, but not jazz. Not a formal classical piece, either.
