Chapter 6
By the end of February, Matthew felt like he was at least somewhat familiar with the world he was now in.
Again. Things had changed, given ten years and a war and people doing everything they could to forget the war.
He was on a different timescale than all of them, and he kept stumbling through places that pinched.
His family, for example. He went back to London for Sunday dinner every fortnight.
That brought home how much had and hadn’t changed, in every possible way.
The streets looked different after the bombing and the bits of rebuilding.
The meal was different, given rationing didn’t exactly allow for a roast. And while he had missed his family, he found it had been a lot easier to think fondly of them when he was in Germany with limited leave home than it was when he was a theoretically quick portal trip away.
His mother’s fussing apparently took the form of wanting to match make for him, tutting all the time over the missed opportunities.
He knew she missed Donald, as much as Matthew did, but that didn’t help here.
They weren’t interchangeable. They never would be.
And given Matthew’s preferences, any sort of marriage would not only be a lie, but would be awful for whatever woman was involved.
Matthew was not entirely opposed to the idea of a marriage for mutual convenience, with some woman who preferred women as strongly as he preferred men.
But that would be the sort of match that would not result in children.
He was sure he’d not be capable even if he’d wanted to.
Or rather, if he’d any desire for it, he’d be a different man.
He’d been sure of that from at least the middle of his Schola days, when he’d found all of what fantasies he’d had firmly focused on young men.
Being around Claudio Warren every week, on a predictable schedule, had certainly brought some of that rushing back. Rushing being decidedly the word, if he let himself linger on it too long. It was entirely inappropriate, and besides that, it would not get the necessary work done.
But he’d had a couple of dreams of being back at school, in the viewing stands for the bohort. The dreams awoke all the old memories of watching the easy way Warren played, the comfort he’d had in his own body when all Matthew felt was awkward. And the way he had of being engaging and charming.
To be fair, the man hadn’t lost that. Warren made things go smoothly in the weekly meetings, as Matthew had taken them on. Not that he agreed to everything.
Warren was as fully capable of arguing his particular need as ruthlessly as anyone in the room, and as stubbornly.
But he did it with a sort of exquisite courtesy, as if he were making it clear that they were duelling with honour and dignity.
Even if they were fighting for keeps. He wasn’t a pushover; he held to his principles.
It reminded Matthew of the best of the arguments he’d sat in on at Nuremberg.
The ones about the meaning of it, about how to document and bring some small justice out of shattered bits of the world.
Being back in Trellech again was both comforting and unsettling.
He’d known Albion’s capital well before the war.
It had been spared the bombing of the Blitz almost completely.
Not that many German bombers had known to target it, but also everyone just ignored Wales.
This time, it had actually been an advantage.
The problem was that the changes in Trellech weren’t entirely visible.
Shops had closed. People he’d known were gone, but in ways he couldn’t always ask about.
Sometimes he’d known a name and could check the library archives.
But how did you find out about that woman who had the garden on the other side of the street from your usual walk in the old flat, with the lovely tabby cat?
She could have moved nearer to some relative and be living in happy contentment.
A routine helped, though. Establishing his own patterns, even when he couldn’t figure out anyone else’s.
Now, Matthew went down to Urania’s Apples on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and sometimes on Saturdays, depending on which musicians were playing.
On Mondays and Wednesdays, he went to the central library.
Friday evenings he usually set things to rights in his flat.
He had a cleaning lady who did her work while he was in the office and disappeared again.
And he sent his laundry out, so there wasn’t too much to deal with there.
That still left a bit to be done. On Saturdays when it was not raining, he took himself somewhere for a ramble.
He’d picked up rather a useful book that mapped out a range of walks with the pubs marked, grouped by length.
When it rained, he went to the museum. Sundays, he watched the apprentice league bohort, and now he had a decent sense of the various teams and key players.
Now and again he might go round to the Boar’s Head, the House club, to catch up with people there. Or he’d see people from his Schola year at some lecture or event or a supper out. One of those a month, maybe. He didn’t want to feel entangled or trapped in the pattern.
It was a more comfortable routine than Nuremberg had been.
Not that it was difficult to manage. The comforts were more practical as well.
His bed had actual padding beyond what cushioning charms he’d managed.
The heating and plumbing were reliable. There was a lack of leaks and draughts.
Food was rationed, but within that, it was fairly reliably available, rather than trusting that the Americans would ship in sufficient supplies to keep everyone fed.
But his flat was still bare, and while he was used to the odd layout now, it still felt awkward.
He had to go through the kitchen— which he barely used— to get to the bath.
The second bedroom, the one he used as a library, was so long and narrow he wasn’t entirely sure how it would fit a bed.
But he’d been able to bring his books out of storage, and he could browse second-hand bookshops for a treat.
There were two steps from the kitchen to the lounge that felt like they wanted some sort of decoration.
He couldn’t be bothered. That was true of the whole place.
He’d not added anything, so it was all white walls except for the brick around the fireplace, and a strip of yellow in the bath.
He’d bought furniture from a shop, second-hand but barely used.
It fit all right, but it never felt entirely easy.
Not that it mattered. He’d certainly forgotten what it felt like to have something that suited better.
For now, the privacy still felt like a luxury.
He didn’t need decorations to lie on his back, stare at the ceiling, and enjoy the fact that he couldn’t feel anyone hovering nearby.
There were good, sturdy walls between him and the rest of the world, and magically buffered to boot.
Now, he opened the door to Urania’s Apples to find the place had a few more people than usual, and that meant he wasn’t sure about taking one of the tables as he normally did.
There was one spare, but what if a couple more people came in?
He put in his order with York, glancing around and trying to decide if he wanted to sit at the bar.
York nodded at someone behind him, then said, “Man behind you, that’s Treeve Dixon, if you don’t mind sharing. Or there’s the bar.”
Matthew craned round. Unsubtle, but he didn’t exactly have other options.
The man at the table behind him was maybe in his sixties.
He was dressed precisely: black suit, sharp tie, a bit old-fashioned, but in a way that Matthew knew meant he was senior administration in the Ministry in some form.
Dixon nodded at Matthew amiably and gestured toward the table.
He’d seen the man a couple of times on previous days, but in conversation with two or three others.
Matthew nodded. “Thanks, York. Fish and chips, please.”
It got a nod, and then Matthew had to negotiate sitting down. “Kind of you.” There, he could start. “Matthew Lawson.”
There was a small, precise smile. “I’ve heard several good things about your work recently, actually.
I’m sure we’ve not met. Treeve Dixon. Senior these days, research and accounting.
” Not a combination that Matthew ever had much to do with directly.
“And York speaks well of you. Which, of course, counts far more than the professional.”
That made Matthew blink multiple times. That suggested several things, and he wasn’t entirely sure how to take it.
“Sir.” That came out reflexively; the man was senior to him, and they were in a line of work that liked deference.
Then he tried again. “I was a regular here before the war, and it’s been good to know the old place is still more the same than many. ” There, two could do coded messages.
“Oh, quite. I saw you in here then, though I’ve never been grand with crowds of people. Too much noise. Do you mind if I bring up the privacy charms once we’ve got our food? They’re a help.” The man made it sound entirely ordinary.
Matthew hadn’t thought about that aspect of it, though of course it could just be a cover for other topics. He nodded. “As you like.” He was out of practice with them, because for all the confidentiality of his work in Germany, using magic to manage it would have been obvious.
“I gather you’re managing the enchantment licensing now?” That made it clear that Dixon had been paying attention rather closely. Or had a mind like a steel trap. “And a bit of materia.”