“The music, my dear chap. And the illusions. Now, we’ll have to figure out how to go round some of the better parties. Not today, of course, but in a fortnight, when people have got a look at you. Don’t make plans for next Friday.” Albie looked him up and down. “Or Saturday. And you must come round to my tailor.”
Farran said, patiently. “I’m fond of my current one. Couldn’t possibly put him out. He saw to Papa, as well as to my uncle.” Not that Uncle Cadmus was considered a sharp dresser. But traditionally minded, yes. And Farran knew he was perfectly suitably dressed, for any purpose other than being out with a fast crowd on a Friday night. Or a Saturday, he supposed. Master Philemon had trained them all in that, just as much as in any matter of art or magic. In their line of work, the aspect of the thing was often just as important as the reality. “But I suppose I could spruce up with a new tie or something of the kind. A different hat.”
“Mmm.” Albie leaned forward, then he crowed. The sound wasn’t that out of place. They’d arrived around half-ten, after drinks in Albie’s flat, not terribly far away. Bedford Square was the well-off area of magical London, with the portal convenient for trips elsewhere, and townhouses tucked away that the non-magical never wondered about. The club, of course, was on the edge of Soho, long a spot for entertainment of all kinds.
Farran couldn’t help taking in the details. The construction of the building seemed solid enough. Whatever magic they were using for decorations and entertainment, the bones of the place seemed solidly made. Albie was well known here. He’d sent a message on to reserve a pair of tables for the two of them, half a dozen people who’d be along in a few, and the two who were off on the dance floor. That was one of Albie’s friends, Lamb by nickname, and his girlfriend Richie. Short for Richelda, she’d said, but Farran could see why she didn’t use that. She was absolutely a woman chasing fashion with a grand desire.
This was, as Vivian— and Master Philemon— had pointed out, also part of the job. Thinking of it like that made it easier for Farran. He’d thought through, in advance, what sort of things he might and might not want to talk about. Farran had certainly expected Albie to suggest drinks. He had the money to cover around or two comfortably. And he knew, more or less, how to get home.
Last night, when he suspected Albie might propose something like this, he’d checked on that. There were three, maybe four, magical clubs in London, but this was by far the best of them right now. Everyone said so. Certainly the largest and most frenetic. But he’d stopped by on a walk last night, and had a word with the doorman about the usual practice.
It was apparently quite easy to hail a cab, or one of the staff would work a particular magic if none were handy. When it came to the drinks, Vivian had indeed sent him off with a little leather case of useful things, including a ring that would shimmer peacock green if a drink had anything other than alcohol in it.
Whatever the pink was, then, it wasn’t a potion. Farran took a sip, then blinked. His expression must have been funny, or perhaps Albie was in the stage of the evening where he found everything funny, because Albie started laughing.
“I didn’t expect it to taste like mint. That’s, er. Startling?” Mint things should not be bright pink. Green, like the mint plants themselves, that was reasonable. He’d allow as mint humbugs might be all sorts of colours, but if they were this end of the colour range, more likely red than a shade more suited to some tropical flower.
“Have a bit more. Good for you. Come on, Farran, it’s Friday. Time to relax a little. No one’s going to carry tales back to the office.” Albie leaned both his elbows on the table.
“Well. Not about being at a magical club, I suppose.” Farran had made it easier to mark himself out as magical. Master Philemon had given him a few people to keep an eye out for. But Farran had worn his Owl House tie each day he was meeting new people this week, and Albie had picked it right up. In a quiet moment, along in one of the storerooms, he’d smoothlyintroduced himself. Albie had been at Dunwich, three years ahead of Farran. That meant he was comfortably established as a junior member of staff, but still young enough to enjoy a night out.
Also, it made him young enough not to have fought in the War, and that was a curious mix here. Most of the crowd were young enough they wouldn’t have either, plenty here were in their twenties. But about a third, maybe more, were older, and Farran could see a mix of visible injuries or marks or whatever one wanted to call them. On an artefact or piece of art, that might add to the value, and here, it was more complicated. People found wearing their history where everyone could see to be uncomfortable, and of course so many people could be awful about it.
“What do you think, after your first week? And where have they put you up?” Albie nudged him. “Oh, there are some new girls here. Quite good dancers, that’s the standard, and you want to hear the singer. She’s, mmm.” There was a purr. Albie had a girlfriend, or at least a woman he was seeing, but apparently this didn’t discourage him from looking. Or listening, as the case may be.
“Serviced flat, a block or two from the portal.” No need to specify which one. “Not big, but I’m not likely to be doing much entertaining, am I? Sitting room, bath, bedroom, and enough to do tea and toast for myself.” Honestly, he preferred his rooms in Trellech, or even better, being back at Thebes. He would trade every minute in this club for time sitting at the table in the kitchen, Lena’s realm. Farran shrugged. “And the office in King Street, you saw that.”
“Rather lonely, being on your own. I thought Ormulu didn’t work like that.” Farran had also more or less expected this, but Albie wasn’t being any too subtle about it. Perhaps one advantage of a Schola education was spotting the unsubtleat ten paces. Spending five years in the vicinity of Fox House practising the arts of obscurity every chance they got helped.
Farran shrugged. This part wasn’t secret. “They take on ten apprentices every five years, see us through. We’re at the stage where people are deciding what’s next. A couple know they want to go into related lines of work. Me, I’m still figuring things out. This is a chance to try my hand at something different, see what it’s like.” And if he was any good at it. A week was far too soon to tell, in a project of this scope. He’d only just got through figuring out who everyone he needed to talk to was, and where their offices or workrooms or storage rooms were. “It seems quite a lot to learn!” He kept his voice bright.
“Any particular specialty?” Albie’s voice got more cautious here. Farran had picked up that Albie apparently had a particular fondness for objects, silversmithing or other metals, and the detail work on them.
Farran shrugged. “I’m an amateur when it comes to a lot of it still. Oh, competent enough to ask the right questions and work up the catalogue entry once an expert has looked at it. I picked up an interest in some of the recent painters, the last few years. The Fauvists, and that set.” Especially once Vivian had pointed out something to him about the focus of some of the magical painters of that set, in the way they chose particular, more obscure, landscapes. “And there’s rather a lot of interesting Arts and Crafts work. Or, well, some of the magical applications. Not so much the fine work, as the more everyday. Talismans, mementos, engagement bands, that sort of thing.”
Just as Albie was about to say something, the music shifted, from dance tunes to something with a beat. From back behind where they were sitting, a woman strolled out through the space between the tables. Several years of coaching from Vivian meant Farran now understood what she was doing with her clothing;every sleek bias-cut line was about an image of movement and fluidity.
The woman had long dark hair, coiled and pinned up in some way that meant every time she turned her head, a small faceted decoration flashed in the club lights. Once she was on stage, he could see her gown was a purple shading to green, glittering with— they must be paste, not diamonds. But excellent paste, enhanced by just the right charms.
The head of the band announced her: Vega Beaumont, the nightingale of Albion. It was a boast, but as soon as she started singing, Farran was sure she’d earned it. Her voice had the outdoors in it. That caught him first. She didn’t sound like someone made for the indoors, for narrow spaces and rooms that echoed. He fancied he could hear birds calling back and forth, the way trees shaped the sound, a burble of some lake or brook.
Farran couldn’t help staring, not that staring actually made it easier to listen. Then he closed his eyes, and he could focus better. He didn’t know her first song, but her second, that was a choice he hadn’t expected.
The singer’s voice rolled through the melody. It took Farran a moment or two to realise that it was Tom O’ Bedlam, a venerable folk song, full of references to magic and enchantment and lore. That was about the asylum not too far across the river in Southwark. Or, well, perhaps the older one, which had begun not too far from where they were sitting, considering.
There was a burr to her voice, on the lower notes, or perhaps more like a cat’s purr, something contented and certain. Then the upper range sang out pure as the nightingale she’d been claimed to be. The combination was compelling, honestly, a raw human sound that made emotions flow.
Farran wasn’t the only one near enough entranced. Albie, next to him, had fallen quiet, and the chatter around them from other tables had died away. The dancers retreated to the chairs without making much of a sound, as if they couldn’t both stand and listen. It was one of those moments that happened far too rarely in music, where the whole transformed everything around it, and couldn’t last. A snowflake melting on the fingertip, a soap bubble shimmering in the sunlight, a flash of magic. There was a moment, amid the music, where he got a shiver of colour— copper orange and deep blue, more blue than the green of Vega’s dress.
Then, somehow, without the world ending, she brought the song to a close. Without a pause, she launched Mad Maudlin, the answer of a woman who searched for ages for her beloved, and would not turn aside. There was something noble in it, a determination that Farran felt about his uncle and about Thebes and Lena, but hadn’t ever felt for someone romantic. It was a curious song to pick in a nightclub, and yet, as with the first, no one could stand to break the moment and move.
When the second tune ended, the musicians shifted into something else, a twining of voice and instruments that didn’t have words, but was faster and brighter. Now Vega’s voice flew over the notes, somersaulting up the scale, then tumbling down, to swoop around again into some new but related patterns. He could almost imagine the strands of ribbon being braided in some May pole dance, or an illusionist’s art formed before the eye. It was as if it knit the world back together, piece by piece, whatever worries had been carried in. That, more than the rest of it, made him wonder what else might be on offer if he stayed to listen.
Chapter 7
THAT NIGHT
By the time the night ended, Vega was delighted with it. She was in full voice again, like she had been the night her aunt and uncle had visited. The tips had been generous, and none of the patrons had been particularly difficult. She’d been complimentary to the band, both from the stage and in private. They’d earned every bit of it. She’d added comments to Madam Helena once she was done with her last set.
