Chapter 32
“I feel like I’m skiving off lessons.” Pen glanced around. “And I need to be back for hall.”
“I’ve a five o’clock lecture I ought to be at,” Edmund said, entirely too agreeably. “I don’t think the actual conversation is going to take hours.” It was after lunch, a time when Pen normally settled down into the heart of her work.
Edmund had asked for some time and her help with a particular task, but he had not been willing to explain what it was anywhere they might be overheard.
This was the worst week to be out on the river, given that it was Eights Week and the racing had already started on the Isis.
It’d be going hard— as would the partying— through Saturday.
Or rather, some ungodly hour on Sunday morning.
At any rate, it had meant meeting in Edmund’s rooms. There was no food on offer, but he’d poured her tea before settling down in one chair, a notepad next to his elbow. Pen watched him, still not sure how to reconcile the different things she knew about him.
She had had to admit to herself on Tuesday evening that she felt more at ease now. But she wasn’t sure if whatever he wanted to talk about would change that. “All right. What did you want to discuss?” If he couldn’t deal with her being direct, well, that was his own fault for not noticing so far.
Edmund let out a little huff of a breath. “I have been thinking about impersonation. Specifically, in this case, about Cecily Styles. More about that in a minute. But also about— the thing about reading Greats is that it’s in my head all the time, it can’t not be.”
“The amount of reading material you have to get through, and the fact I gather they expect you to make connections. Literature to language to archaeology, and so on.” Pen could at least sympathise about it.
Maths was vastly easier, because while she needed to fit things together, skills built on other skills, they were all things she was actively using regularly. “What impersonation in this case?”
“There is a whole series of times when the gods impersonate someone. Usually, someone the person, the human they’re talking to, knows.
Sometimes the human notices they must be a god, though.
It’s rather interesting when you stack all the stories together.
I was looking through them last night, my notes and a couple of translations.
” He glanced over at the bookshelves. “I like to think I’d notice if a god talked to me. ”
Pen listened to this, then tilted her head. “Are you— are you religious, Edmund?”
To her surprise, he flushed. “Reasonably, yes. Not Christian. And what I do, not in any public sort of way. Though I’ll go to chapel at Exeter now and again. I like the flow of the ritual even if it’s not mine. It’s well designed for what it’s doing.”
It was the oddest discussion of the Church of England she’d had in some time, though she couldn’t argue with any of it. “I go because of my grandfather— he’s a vicar. But I like evensong for the same reasons. Soothing. Predictable in a way that has, I don’t know, deep chronological roots.”
“And maths and music dance well with each other,” Edmund offered, looking up at her.
Someone else might have peered over glasses, but this had a sudden intimacy to it, without actually requiring her to do anything about that.
More she was going to have to think about.
Then he offered another form of vulnerability.
“A particular devotion to Mercury, in his Romano-British forms, as consort to Rosmerta. There’s a little shrine in the conservatory. You’ve walked right past it.”
Pen had very little idea what to do with that information for a moment, then she blinked. “I— isn’t he known for being a trickster? You have seemed...” Her voice trailed off.
Now, Edmund had a particular sort of smile. “A man— or woman— can seem to be one thing and be quite another. Though that’s our question, isn’t it?”
“Ours?” Pen twisted to face him better. The position of his chair and her bit of sofa made that a little tricky. “Why am I here?”
“You are the one who noticed something odd. You can be in places I can’t. And— well. You’ve had good ideas so far. You also don’t have any observed moral objections to hiding information in at least some cases.”
“I’d argue that cryptography is mostly— well, the parts I’ve been around— figuring out what other people are hiding. Though also hiding things better.” Pen ran her hand over her face. “Now I’m making your argument for you, aren’t I?”
“I gathered from Uncle Giles and Aunt Cammie that your proposal involves some amount of theory about better cyphers.” His voice was utterly neutral for a moment, then it warmed. “Do say you’re taking Uncle Giles up on his offer?”
That immediately made her lean forward. “You want me to? You said it wasn’t a bother to— all that.” Even though he’d gone to some lengths about it.
“It was no bother to connect two people— three— interested in the same things, who really ought to have been introduced years ago. I enjoy doing that sort of thing, when I can.” Edmund waited a moment, but Pen did not know what to say to that, and held her tongue.
“At any rate, some conversation yesterday clarified that it might be useful to figure out some things. I have been given advice about how to put some of it into motion, but I would very much like your thoughts and help.”
“My help.” Pen sounded entirely dubious. “Why would you need me?”
“For one thing, I’m fairly sure you can do the locational magic calculation part quite easily. It’s the end of term. I’d rather not bother Professor Wain. I took Time and Place, but my focus was on ritual spaces, and this is a little different.”
Pen snorted, but she couldn’t actually argue with the maths being easier for her. “What is it you’re trying to figure out?”
Edmund took a breath, reached for his notepad, and then glanced at it, as if to remind himself of some order.
“The information I have strongly suggests a couple of things. First, there are some earlier photos of Cecily Styles that don’t quite match the current woman.
It’s hard to tell, of course— the general particulars match, hair colour and overall build.
But there’s a lot of space in those. Dark hair, medium height and build, all that.
She dresses well, but that’s not the sort of thing in the official records. ”
Pen couldn’t argue with that either. “All right. And?”
There was a longish pause before Edmund said, carefully.
“My war work was secret, like yours, and for many of the same reasons. Dancing around both of our oaths, what I can say is that I know where you were working, and I visited there once or twice. Very much in the train of senior administrators, of course.”
Pen blinked at him, multiple times. “You. Wait.” She let out a huff of breath. “I don’t know what to do with that information.”
“For the moment, I hope it simply gives some grounding for the next part. Which is that through that, I have a connection that agrees there’s something a trifle odd about Miss Styles and her background. Nothing obvious, but of course, so many kinds of hiding aren’t. For both good and bad reasons.”
“I’ve wondered for a bit if she might have been a refugee who came here through unusual means, making a life now.
” Pen knew a few other stories like that.
People who had borrowed papers, then been stuck using them, in a kind of infinite limbo.
Or others, who’d had everything destroyed in the Blitz, and remade themselves into something new.
“If it is something innocent, I’m hoping that what I have in mind will clear that up.
And it can remain entirely unofficial. But if it’s not.
..” Edmund shrugged. “We have hints she’s certainly targeting people who can’t defend themselves in that way.
There might be a good reason for that, but there are also a number of less desirable ones. ”
“All right.” Pen let out a breath. “What is it you want to do?” She listened as he explained the outline.
Parts of it still needed to be worked out, permission from Lord Davenport, the setup of the space, all that.
But it was, she had to admit, a practical sort of plan.
Someone had thought about the places it might go wrong, though perhaps not all of it.
“What if she screams or claims you attacked her or something?”
“Some of what we have in mind will keep that private,” Edmund said carefully. “There’s some discussion of having someone else, who has skills I don’t, in case we need them. My father’s steward, Master Benton.”
Pen considered that. “You aren’t dashing in to be a solitary hero?”
“No.” Edmund looked at the shelves for a moment, then he stood, going over to stare at something on one of them.
A photograph, though Pen couldn’t see what it was.
Or who, rather. “One thing I’ve thought about a lot is the structures that allow for visible heroism.
Brave people doing necessary things, but it takes a lot to put them in the right place.
Then I think about Telemachus, isolated in his own home.
Odysseus, on his way home, until there’s only him and whatever help he can persuade along the way. Penelope, on her own.”
He turned to look at her then. Pen spread her hands. “You know I’m named after her. I’ve never been entirely sure what to think of it. But also yes, I know the stories. Child’s version of the Odyssey on the bookshelf when I was young and all that.”
“She’s enigmatic in the text. If you want chapter and verse, as it were, I can show you. If you’d like.” There was, she thought, something there that was shy, not a mood she expected from someone like Edmund.
She found herself saying, “Yes. I’d like that. When we’ve sorted out this plan you have. What is it you think you can do magically?”
Edmund offered a broader smile, something like he’d looked— just for a moment— when he’d been holding Cammie’s daughter. It had a contentment in it, somehow, that was hard to describe or name, but that had weight and solidity.
Then he cleared his throat. “We believe that if we get the right permission, we can make a space where the truth is more demanding. Not forced, but more present. The desire for truth. And I’ll— by then— have been taught a couple of ways to read magical signatures.
If she’s using the name she began her life with, I’m fairly sure I can spot that now.
What kinds of magical training she’s had, if we get her talking about it.
I say we, but you can be behind a door or something.
The space I was looking at last night has a large upstairs room and a smaller one off of it.
Master Benton would wait there regardless, in case we needed more help. ”
“I’ll— I’ll think about it. I don’t know anything about having this sort of confrontation.
” It was like something out of a story, even a school story.
Standing up for what was just and true and right.
The thing was, Pen knew the world didn’t work like that.
Those three adjectives didn’t always run together, twisting and weaving into one cloth. “When did you want to do this?”
“We’re rapidly approaching the end of term. And the balls. I don’t know, I mean. If she has particular plans, surely those are part of them? It’s her last year. She’s got to be pushing for the next thing quickly.” Edmund shrugged.
Pen blinked at him. “Do you have plans? For the next few weeks?”
“I’d like as few as I can manage— we’ve some obligations for solstice, of course, and the week after. But I also need to make an appearance here and there. For this, there was no hope of getting a room this week, not until Sunday night.”
“And besides, you need permission and all that. So, next week?” Pen could see how that made sense.
“The middle of the week. Tuesday or Wednesday. Tuesday would be better, if we can. If we do have to call someone in, the people I’d most want handy are busy Wednesday evening.” He hesitated for a moment. “Council, both of them.”
“Your apprentice master.” Pen still didn’t know what to think of that. She didn’t have a sense of the measure of it, what it changed about the landscape. “He knows about this then?”
“Oh, gods.” Edmund laughed, the tension utterly fracturing. “He’s the one who worked out most of what makes sense to do. The other one is Gabriel Edgarton. He’s a Penelope. Professionally, I mean, rather than nominatively.”
The clarification made Pen giggle all of a sudden. “I have wondered what happens if they ever get someone named Penelope, honestly. But it’s one reason I go by Pen. Also, some people, very odd, want to rhyme the thing with cantaloupe. No, thank you.”
Edmund peered at her, briefly bemused. “No, indeed. Well. I shall continue calling you Pen. Anyway, he consulted informally, but if we need something formal, both he and Uncle Alexander have a regular meeting Wednesday night. With the rest of the Council, so it would be obvious.”
“And heaven forbid anyone should be obvious in this.” Pen said it, teasing a little, before glancing at Edmund to find an odd expression on his face.
“I said that about something earlier. But no. As a family, we abhor being that kind of visible. About anything other than what we’ve chosen, anyway.” He shrugged once. “Will you help me?”
In the end, it apparently came down to a very simple question. Four words, the easiest maths imaginable. Pen ought to have thought about it more, but she found herself saying yes without any hesitation. “Yes. Tell me what you need.”
The next half hour got her a series of notes, sketches, and additional details, all laid out as thoroughly as any brief might be.
By the time Edmund walked her back up toward the university and her own supper, she permitted him to offer his arm as an escort.
She did it without thinking too much about it and then rather enjoyed it.