Chapter 33 #2
“A pity.” Her fingers touched his arm again.
There was that inclined angle, a little deeper this time.
“Now that you’re here, I see that you’re not at all what I expected.
” Cecily’s voice dropped in pitch a little, and Edmund tuned his own attention to what his magic— what the Naming magic, in particular— could tell him.
“I have perhaps miscalculated. You’re neither as stiff nor as limp as I thought you might be. ”
He was entirely certain she meant the innuendo.
She gave no hint of it, in the shift of her eyes or her hand, but he could feel the implication.
He met her eyes, the way she was focused on him.
“You’d given me some thought then. Not just as— hmm.
Someone to avoid, in case I might object to what you were doing. ”
“What do you think I’ve been doing? Besides my essays and my studies? Oh, and enjoying myself when I’ve the chance?”
This was where he needed to unspool what he had, carefully.
He took another sip deliberately, and he was rewarded with another touch on his arm.
This time, she left her fingers there, as if she were trying to sense his pulse through his sleeve.
Certainly, she might be trying to feel his magic, but he was dressed to avoid that.
He suspected she had far less experience with magically woven suits than he did.
Her familiarity more likely focused on what could be done with women’s clothing and fashions. That was interesting.
In this case, he was dressed to hide his magic, to obscure it. To keep it close to him, in easy reach, without hinting to anyone else what he might do. “I might say it’s something out of a mystery. Sayers, perhaps. As in the Attenbury Emeralds.”
“Ah.” There was a tiny hesitation, then she tapped his arm, as if waiting for something. Just with one finger. “What could I possibly have to do with such a thing? I grew up in the country.”
“The country allows one to develop quite a range of skills, potentially,” Edmund replied, now more than a little amused. “Come on, you know that if you swore on the Pact you had nothing to do with it, I’d go away.”
“Mmm.” She shook her head, her smoothly styled hair staying firmly in place. Whatever other magics she applied, she clearly knew and had mastered a number of the cosmetic ones. “I’d rather not, darling. Such a bother to brush against that sort of fear.”
It was an intriguing answer. Oaths on the Pact brought out one’s strongest fear, at least for a moment.
That was part of how the magic worked. Fear, as Edmund had been taught several times over, was the clearest emotion in many cases.
He considered. “Where did you spend your war, then? Something from that?”
He felt the twitch rather than saw it, the slight shift in pressure in her hand.
Her face stayed neutral, though, and that suggested a great deal of self-control and training of a particular kind.
Or a particular sort of structure— even abuse— in her life at some earlier point.
What she said, however, was simple enough. “London, for most of it.”
“I can see how that might give one particular fears.” Edmund spoke gently.
For all he was certain, increasingly certain, that she was up to something in specific— about him, about others— he had no desire to be cruel.
Not unless it were actually necessary, and that was not the case yet. “We are at an impasse, aren’t we?”
“We are, a little. Be a dear, and finish your drink, darling. I can pour you a little more.” She glanced at his hand, then back at his face.
“I thought it a shame to rush it, but you’re right, I am a tad thirsty. The weather’s warming, of course.” Edmund could engage in this sort of prattle as well as anyone and better than most. He took a sip from the glass. “An interesting honey.”
“Oh, yes. The bees where I grew up, that’s the best sort of taste, isn’t it? The ones we’re born to understand.” It was a fascinating phrasing. Also, interestingly, one she honestly believed, or so his magic told him. It was certainly one he believed in as well.
“I entirely agree. No food ever tastes as good to me as what’s come from Ytene.
” Here, he let himself digress for a minute.
He could talk forever about the nature of the local landscape, the pigs who’d grazed on acorns and forest plants, the sheep in their meadows, the chickens.
It was perhaps a tad difficult for her, but he wanted to see how she reacted.
The more he talked, the more he suspected she came from somewhere with its own home farm.
She had not gone years without plenty of eggs, at least at times. Or milk or cream in abundance.
As he talked, she gave every show of listening intently.
He did his best to play along with what she expected, whatever that might be.
But he could not quite bring himself to entirely slur his words, if the point of the drink was drunkenness.
Besides, as a young man of his age and class, his head for alcohol might be reasonably assumed to be a good one.
He’d certainly put a fair bit of time and training into that problem to keep up with his peers in London.
When he’d gone on for a little longer, seeing what she’d do, she patted his arm, like one might pat a cosseted dog’s head. “Be quiet now, do.” With that, he could feel the magic coiling, but then just sliding away from him.
“I don’t think so.” As he spoke, he let his own magic surge, a horse about to leap a fence, all tidy limbs and enthusiasm aimed in a particular direction. He twisted his hand under hers to grab her wrist, adding a charm to keep her anchored in her seat.
Her eyes widened. “I’ll scream.”
“They won’t hear you.” He was certain of it. “I wish to have a particular conversation.”
“You’d not hurt me.” Cecily tried to pull her arm back, and Edmund kept a good hold. He didn’t entirely need it, not now. But it would be a shame to have her thrash and break the glasses, or perhaps injure herself. “Who are you?”
That made something snap into place, and he quoted the line in Greek, with a sudden certainty and the hard crack of the K in the first word.
Then, more deliberately, he gave a reasonable translation in English, softening the K to the S sound.
“Circe said, ‘I am amazed you could drink my potion and yet not be bewitched’.” The first word of it, the name, made her eyes widen.
Edmund pressed the point. “That is your name, yes? Circe?”
She did not answer, lowering her eyes, breathing hard like she’d just run a race.