Chapter 12
Pen was not happy to be awake at three in the morning.
Something had woken her, and she did not know what.
It wasn’t as if there was anyone moving terribly near her.
When she looked out the window, however, she could see a figure cutting across the quad.
Any other college at Oxford, Pen might have expected some figure of authority to appear from nowhere— walking on the grass was commonly forbidden to such as students.
Somerville permitted it, but certainly not at three in the morning.
The light was awful— they were getting on toward the new moon— with just a few lamps around the edge of the quad for safety.
She couldn’t get a look at who it was, other than undeniably female in form, and wearing what was likely a dress.
The fabric was more substantial than a commoners' gown.
And the sleeves, even in a moving silhouette, were wrong for the other academic gowns that might be plausible.
It made her sit on the bed and keep watching until that shadowy figure disappeared, to what was probably a back window.
They were brave to come through the quad and not round the back.
But no, wait. Pen had heard something about them taking steps to make it harder to climb the wall there.
Of course, women had it harder, since they were likely wearing both shoes unsuited for climbing a wall and skirts likely to catch on things.
The whole matter wasn’t really any of Pen’s concern.
It was nothing to her if a woman came home late from an evening with her young man.
It was certainly far more risk than Pen would ever take, even if she’d had a young man to take it with.
Even if she’d known who it was, it wasn’t like she’d have reported them.
If the woman made it in without notice, well, that was fine.
It did grate on Pen how the women were treated so differently from men.
She’d had five years at Schola, where the differences were minimal.
Oh, they got different lectures from Matron about various health matters and the relevant charms. And certainly, there were charms and protections that meant boys and girls had little chance of getting privacy without going to some lengths.
A long walk down to the beach and hoping none of the merfolk were around, for example.
It made it simpler to do whatever was permitted in more visible places.
Not that Pen had bothered with that, either.
And at Bletchley, the constant shift considerations, the lack of privacy at billets, and so on had made matters complex.
But there, women were treated sufficiently as equals.
Certainly Pen knew of a dozen marriages that had begun there.
She had many more examples of men and women walking out together, or going to one of the regular weekly dances, or many other activities.
There had been a separation, and a number of people had an eye on the younger women in particular. But it wasn’t as extreme as Oxford was.
Here, that extremity was also unfair. A man out overnight risked a fine and a scolding, the stern disapproval of whoever caught him or had to deal with it.
The woman might well be sent down. And it wasn’t as if smuggling a man into the woman’s rooms was any better than her being out.
That frustrated Pen no end, the way they were treated differently.
All here were in search of learning and knowledge, but some had entirely different landscapes to dwell in.
Different bases of numbers, she sometimes thought, as if the women were working in base seven or some such, and the men in base ten.
Pen’s irritation kept her up until four at least, despite her best efforts.
When she was woken by Emily, the staircase scout, at half-eight, she grumbled but got up.
It wasn’t as though she could lounge about.
She had maths to do. And a lecture to attend that afternoon.
Two of them, in fact. There was one at the Academy at two that seemed promising, before Professor Born’s at five.
Thus it was that she came into the JCR at the Academy at half three after the last discussion following the lecture had cleared out.
There she found Edmund Carillon stretched out on one sofa.
Oh, he didn’t have his feet up, but he was leaning with his back against the far arm, foot twisted under his other leg, looking remarkably languid.
Even his commoners’ gown looked good, though she was close enough to get a better look than she had before.
She strongly suspected it had been handed down from some relative, as it was of decidedly sturdier black cotton than other people wore.
She could not, annoyingly, get that thought about the corona out of her head now she’d seen it.
His hair was golden, like something out of a properly cast opera or dramatic production.
He looked every bit the noble young hero, down to the way he was dressed.
If the modern hero dressed in a beautifully turned out suit, that was.
With, of course, a tie with the linked keys of the Exeter crest. Men had their ways of signalling their associations, none of them terribly subtle.
“Afternoon.” Pen tried not to sound grudging, but she certainly felt it.
“There’s mint in the urn if you want some. Still warm.” Carillon’s voice was amiable. He flicked the paper he was holding, and Pen suspected it was the crossword again.
“Thanks.” Pen knew how to have manners. And more to the point, if Mum found out she’d been rude, Pen would never hear the end of it.
That was the thing. Basic human decency included being civil.
Especially when there was nothing actually wrong with what he’d done. “Did you go to the lecture earlier?”
“Yes. And I was thinking of Professor Born’s at five. Not my usual line of things, but I’ve been finding the series interesting.”
“I wouldn’t have thought it was your area of interest, no.
” Pen poured herself a cup of tea— very much mint, though a blend of them.
The nice thing about the Academy was that the number of alchemists and materia specialists about the place did not stand for boring blends, even if proper tea was hoarded for personal use.
“How have you found the series?” This was the last, so it was interesting to know what else he’d gone to. “I don’t think I’ve seen you there.”
“Oh, glad to defer to people in the proper fields. I find myself a corner near the back, out of the way. I missed the one on, what was it, matter, two weeks ago. And the one on Antecedence, I had some preparations to do for my apprenticeship.” He gestured casually as if that were no particular matter.
Pen tilted her head. “May I ask what you’re apprenticing in?”
“Ritual magic, with Magister Landry.” Carillon said the sentence evenly enough. But Pen felt as if some wheel had not clicked into place, as if there were still a waiting puzzle to be solved. “You?”
“Not apprenticing at present.” Pen gave the answer she’d become accustomed to. “Maybe next year.” Then she tilted her head, because of course she knew that name. “The Council Member.”
“Yes.” Carillon pushed himself up on one elbow, pivoting to sit properly. “I normally refer to him as Uncle Alexander. He’s been close to my family for oh, a decade and more now. I’m learning a great deal, but the preparations for the work can be a tad time consuming.”
“I suppose. I took Ritual through fifth year, though I’m afraid I wasn’t one of Professor Leonard’s best.” Pen might as well be honest there.
She didn’t know how to measure what apprenticing with a family friend meant about Carillon’s own level of skill.
It could mean he was exceptional. It could mean it was a favour.
The man seemed diligent enough about it.
And she supposed that if Carillon were apprenticing, it wasn’t the done thing to have a servant do the preparation. “That must take some space?”
“Oh, yes. I’ve a workroom upstairs. But I’m living in digs this year, and arranged a room for ritual work as well.” He offered her an entirely too-charming smile. “Also, vastly better hot water and all the modern conveniences at hand, rather than across the quad.”
“I miss that terribly about Schola. The hot water most, I think. Or maybe the heating. It depends when you ask me.” The honesty of it brought Pen a little closer to sit in one of the chairs.
Now, she felt another spike of envy, and did her best to shove it down.
Not only could she hear Grandfather lecturing in her head about that particular sin, but Mum had made it clear it wasn’t a useful sort of feeling. Envy didn’t lead anywhere good.
It meant, however, that she couldn’t think of what else to say. The silence stretched on awkwardly until she asked, “How is the crossword?”
“One completely awful pun involving Scotland,” Carillon replied promptly. “Two bits of Shakespeare, I had to look one up but not the other. At the moment, I’m wishing I knew cricket better.”
“Not your game?” It sounded inane as soon as she said it.
“Oh, no. I can watch a match and give a few comments on games of yore. I was on the House bohort team, and the School team my last two years. But I’m better at pavo. We breed pavo ponies, you see.”
She’d heard that. Not that pavo— something of a cross between mediaeval horseback training, polo, and the magical puzzles played on foot of bohort— was a sport she knew much about. But she’d heard that about the Carillons. “And I suppose there’s not much of that at Oxford.”
“No. I played some pavo last summer, and some pickup bohort. Nothing serious for either, though, not since I left school. No time to do it properly, of course, for years.” Pen listened to the tone in his voice, that slight echo of something complex.
She couldn’t figure out if that was missing the sport, having lost a good friend or two he’d played with, or something else. She certainly would not ask. “Any clues you’re stuck on?” She lifted a finger. “I haven’t done it yet myself. It’s been a bit of a day.”
“Mmm.” Carillon let his finger run down the list. “Two words, three letters each. Fourth letter is E, sixth is G. One of those dreadfully annoying things. The clue is ‘Like others it probably seemed all right till it got broken.’”
Pen frowned. “Any other letters?”
“No, there’s a wordplay, you know, rearrange the letters, for 10 across, that’d get the second letter.
‘A bit I divide in turning’. Five letters.
” He was right. The form of that clue implied just that sort of puzzle.
Five letters was fairly short. She contemplated.
Bit. Tib? With an I and A, that made sense.
“Try tibia.” She suggested it with a little more confidence once she began speaking.
“Oh! I never think of bones for some reason, terribly silly of me.” He tapped the pen— of course he was doing it in pen— then said. “Second letter A, fourth is E, sixth is G. Three letters. Egg. Bad egg!” He sounded so cheerful about it. “Thank you, Miss Sterling.”
It was ridiculously formal, but she nodded once. Then she set her cup down. “I’m sorry, I realised I ought to do something before the lecture. Do excuse me. Enjoy the rest of your crossword.”
Her sudden change took him aback, but he immediately stood. Of course he had those sorts of manners. She set her cup aside to be washed by one of the scouts, nodded once, and disappeared out the door before she said something unforgivable.
The thing was, he had been entirely cordial. She was the one who was being an unrepentant brat. Pen did not know why she was feeling like this, except perhaps the lack of sleep and general strain at this point in term. The only sensible thing to do, however, was to go away.