This was a most unexpected revelation. But Titus’s thrill lasted only a second. “Does the rupture view happen only one way, or is it mutual?”
“It is most assuredly mutual. There have been instances when a mind mage’s master chose to interrupt an Inquisition deliberately, when he believed the mind mage might not be strong enough to break the subject, in order to obtain a rupture view.”
Which meant the Inquisitor, when she regained consciousness, would have the image of Princess Ariadne and the canary imprinted in her mind. She would need no time to find out that Princess Ariadne had never owned a canary in her life.
And then she would remember that she and Titus had not been entirely alone in the Inquisition Chamber.
It was only Kashkari, Wintervale, and Iolanthe for tea.
“His Highness is still puking?” asked Wintervale.
“Not anymore,” said Iolanthe. “All the same, he doesn’t want to smell fried sausages. He’ll have a few water wafers in his room.”
Wintervale gestured at the spread of food on his desk. “Well then, tuck in.”
“How was your trip home, Fairfax?” asked Kashkari. “And will your family come for the Fourth of June?”
Iolanthe took a sip of tea, buying herself a few seconds to think. At least she knew for certain her family would not be coming for the Fourth of June, whatever that was. “They start for Bechuanaland this week, actually. And you, gentlemen, how is life away from home?”
“I am always in favor of life away from home,” answered Wintervale with a sigh.
“What do you do on holidays then?”
“Wait for school to begin again.”
What did one say to something like that? “Is it as bad for you, Kashkari?”
“No, I miss home—a round trip to India takes six weeks, so it’s only during the summer that I get to see my family. I wish I didn’t have to attend school so far away.”
“Why did you decide to attend school so far from home?” She’d seen a few other Indian boys in uniform, so at least he wasn’t the only one.
“The astrologer said I should.”
“Astrologer?”
Kashkari nodded. “We have these complicated charts drawn up when we are born. For every major decision in life, we consult the astrologer—preferably the one who drew up the chart—and he tells us the auspicious and sometimes the necessary paths to take.”
It sounded remarkably like what mages did with their birth charts. “So you are not here because you want to be, but because it was in the stars.”
“Some things are preordained.”
The inflection of Kashkari’s voice reminded her of the prince’s, when the latter spoke of the futility of trying to escape one’s destiny.
Wintervale reached for a piece of sausage. “I think you put too much stock in the stars.”
His elbow knocked over his tea mug. They all leaped up. Kashkari reached for a towel next to Wintervale’s washstand. Iolanthe lifted a stack of books out of the way.
Behind the books stood a small, framed picture—a family portrait, a man, a woman, and a young boy between them. Iolanthe nearly dropped the books. The boy was obviously Wintervale nine or ten years ago. His father looked vaguely familiar, but his mother’s face she recognized instantly.
The madwoman who’d tried to suffocate her in the portal trunk.
“Your family?” she asked, hoping her tone wasn’t too sharp.
“Except my father is no more. And my mother hasn’t been the same since he died.”
That was one way of saying his mother was a murderous lunatic. “Is that why you don’t like holidays?”
“She’s actually all right most of the time. I just never know when she won’t be.” Wintervale took the towel from Kashkari and wiped away the spilled tea. He tossed aside the towel, poured more tea for himself, and sat down. “I think we should do something about your bowling technique, Fairfax. You’ve great attack, but your arm and shoulder don’t quite align as they should.”
Through Titus’s half-open door, the din of thirty-some boys at leisure washed in wave by wave: boots and brogues stomping up and down the stairs; junior boys hauling trays of dirty dishes, plates and silverware jangling; the house officers, in their common room across the passage, debating the differences between the Eton football game and the Winchester football game.
He sat on his bed, his back against the wall. The Crucible lay open on his lap, and a stranger’s face stared at him. If he had ever doubted the efficacy of the Irreproducible Charm that had been cast on Fairfax, here was his proof. He was usually competent with pen and ink, but the rendering he had attempted of her face was outright unrecognizable.
He tapped his wand against the page. The ink lifted from the illustration in a swirl and returned to the reservoir of his fountain pen. Sleeping Beauty now lay on her bed without a face, amidst all the details of dust and cobweb he had added over the years. He tapped his wand again, and her original features returned, pretty and insipid.