Chapter 20 #2
“Home. The home farm and the estate kitchen specifically. Don’t worry, all of it’s homegrown, and we send off our surplus properly to the Temple of Healing and the schools and all that.
” He glanced up. “But I’m under instruction to make sure I keep up my rations to allow for the magical work I’m doing, and yesterday was a proper feast day.
These are mostly extras from that.” He eyed the hamper.
“Well, there’s a tradition of cooks named Mudthon feeding us up, as a family. ”
“Cooks, multiple?” Pen could more or less get her head around him having a cook. “How many people live there, anyway?”
“Our current Mrs Mudthon is the niece by marriage of our original Mrs Mudthon, who is now retired to bake only when she wishes. It allows for a continuation of Papa’s favourite biscuits— well, when rationing permits again— and she’s familiar with our ways.
In terms of how many she cooks for, it depends on who’s home and what day of the week it is.
Right now, anywhere from four to ...” He had to pause, as if doing maths he didn’t normally do that way, “Twelve, if it’s an informal supper.
Plus the staff hall. More if there are guests.
Last night was, oh, twenty-five, but that’s mostly because some of the other people we’d normally invite for that sort of gathering had their own land obligations. ”
Pen was used to people coming and going in the vicarage.
But the idea of twenty-something for supper seemed like an overwhelming number of dishes to deal with, even with magic.
Teacups and saucers were quite bad enough that way.
“Oh.” She swallowed. “The message?” She reached for one of the little plates, because she couldn’t let the scone go to waste.
“Uncle Giles and Aunt Cammie read your note, and they are both intrigued. Uncle Giles has several rather tricky bits of consulting over the next fortnight, maybe a little longer. But he promises he will send along a note about arranging time as soon as his work permits. I was expressly told to tell you he means it, if you had any doubt. And to tell you that if he does not write in a fortnight, to let me know so I can remind him.”
“Oh.” Pen swallowed. “I didn’t think it was—”
“Aunt Cammie said it’s a clever idea. She didn’t tell me what it was, of course.
And that you’d already spotted an option or two that weren’t in similar and far more flawed proposals she’d seen.
” Then Carillon looked up. “I suspect it’s not the sort of thing where you can crow about your brilliance to anyone else.
Either they won’t understand it or you ought to keep it private for reasons of the content.
But if you could crow, you would be entitled to, I gather. ”
“Oh.” It came out sounding different this time, and Pen knew she was flushing horribly. “Thank you for taking the message, then. I hope I won’t have to bother you further.”
“It is absolutely no bother for me to toddle along and chat with either of them. I promise.” He reached to take one scone, spreading it with the fig preserves and taking a pleased bite.
She did the same, partly because doing what he did seemed less stressful.
They were excellent, even with the heavier flour. Their cook was skilled, then.
“What was it you wanted to ask me?” It came out sharp again, but Pen was less and less sure of her footing here.
“Ah. I’ve noticed some odd things. I’m wondering if you’ve noticed odd things.
People here at Oxford, the ones I’m thinking of aren’t magical.
” Carillon was watching her now, but in a sort of open way, not staring.
That was also deeply annoying, because she’d have an idea what to do if he were staring rudely.
This was him being focused on her, and she wasn’t at all sure she wanted it to continue.
“Why me?” That was, in fact, the thing Pen had been trying to sort out.
He shrugged, one hand palm up. “You’re reading maths. You must be quite good at logic proofs at this point. I would like to borrow a cup of logic, or something of the kind. Someone else’s observations.”
“What makes you think I’m observant? You barely know me.” Pen said, frustrated.
“I know you were in Salmon House, and I know that some of your house magics encourage certain kinds of observation. Mama was in Salmon. You enjoy cryptic crosswords, which suggests a particular kind of mind.” He added it before she had to ask.
“And you just seem like an observant sort. That you have a good mind is demonstrated by Uncle Giles and Aunt Cammie and their reaction. Who else would I ask?”‘
“Dozens of people!” She threw her hands up. “Carillon, you make no sense. You’re not at all logical.”
“That would be why I wish to borrow a cup of it.” He said it with an unreasonably charming smile, but then he went on, tilting his head. “I am trusting my own self. I don’t suppose it would be easier, but if you’d rather call me Edmund, you’re welcome to.”
She nodded, not daring herself to try that, never mind suggesting he might call her Pen.
“All right. What have you observed?” He must have spent some amount of time putting together his information, because he presented it in a remarkably orderly manner.
He had noticed gossip about a handful of men, all well-off sorts.
Like Carillon himself, except they’d gone to one of a handful of the right public schools— Eton, Harrow, Winchester.
They were the kind with plenty of money, without a need to marry well for station or income.
He then added a few notes about some thefts at country houses in some of that same set.
“How on earth do you know about the thefts?” Pen asked when he came to the end of the explanation.
“Clippings services and a few inquiries. Someone my parents know asked me about it when she realised some of the people involved were up at Oxford.” He glanced up. “Gossip is such a fascinating vector— that’s the word I want, yes?— for information.”
It made her snort. “All right. And you wonder if I’ve noticed anything odd?
” He nodded once. Pen did not have his advance preparation, but she had been thinking about the problem on her own for ages.
“A couple of things in my own college. Somerville.” He must have known that, he nodded once.
“But also, there have been some odd advertisements in the papers. They don’t fit. ”
“I saw a couple of those!” He pulled a different notebook out of the other side of his jacket, thumbed through it, and read several out.
“Like that. There are a couple more you didn’t read, going back through Michaelmas term.” Pen bit her lip, realising that she’d just admitted that first, she had spotted something, and second that she’d done a certain amount of investigation already.
“We can come back to that then.” Carillon considered. “What was the other odd thing?”
“There’s a woman in my college— Cecily Styles. I don’t think she’s magical, but I keep wondering if I’m wrong. I can’t pin down what nags at me about her, but there’s something that does. It’s not really her clothes or her hair. Though she has longer hair than you’d think.”
“That is not a name I know.” Now he leaned back, one arm stretched out across the back of the seat. “And I likely would.”
He seemed so confident of it, as if it were the perfect pose, chosen to set him off like some classical statue of an emperor. But she knew more than enough Roman history— it didn’t take much— to know that for a lie.