Scientific concern was better than none at all. Alan managed to sit up. “It’s … settling down,” he said. “Ugh. I don’t think this house is impressed with me.” Not that he could blame it.
Edwin held up his notebook to show him the new-written word OAK.
“That explains why the warding’s so powerful,” Edwin said, even though no it fucking didn’t.
“Do you have anything for a headache?” Alan asked.
Violet swept into hostess mode and told Edwin that they were done experimenting, at least until after some food. She offered Alan her arm for support, in a faintly hilarious display of chivalry, but he waved her off. There was only a lingering throb behind his eyes now. He could handle it.
The mundane magic of domestic service caused tea and muffins and cakes to appear in one of the parlours. The maid who brought it exchanged a few friendly words with Violet and met Alan’s eyes curiously. Alan caught himself in an odd pang of disappointment, as if he’d wanted to catch Violet in the act of mistreating her staff.
He was looking for another reason to keep these people at arm’s length. Another reminder. He heard his accent shift toward Clerkenwell as he thanked the maid—another bloody inconvenience of spending time with toffs. He always had the urge to set himself apart, make it obvious he was part of the downstairs team, even though he wasn’t. Not here. He was on no team but his own.
Alan had three heavily buttered muffins and a cup of sugared tea, into which Violet put a dash of something she claimed would help his head, while Edwin read about oak in Mrs. Sutton’s monograph and theorised on what they could do next. Alan saw more unpleasant umbrella-shoving in his future. That oak door was certainly keeping something hidden.
“Could I take some of these for my sister’s kids?” he asked Violet, of some golden cakes that smelled of lemon. “They never get sweets this good.”
“Of course!” Violet even called the maid back to put together a basket, which made Alan’s skin itch with the violent familiarity of receiving charity. Well, he’d already shoved his pride and his shame down enough to be here in the first place. Spinet House had bruised him for prying. He’d take today’s hazard pay in the form of sweets for Emily and Tom.
Edwin’s rambling, which had taken on the absent tones of someone working things out on his own with no need for external contribution, was interrupted by melodically chiming bells, followed by the arrival of Sir Robert and Miss Morrissey. This time Alan knew where they were coming from; Violet had explained that when Spinet was being built, the nearby Underground station of Bayswater was also under construction. Magicians could make all sorts of things happen in secret. Including a tunnel running between a side corridor of the station and Spinet’s cellar, with both ends magically disguised and warded.
“Oh, cake,” said Miss Morrissey, descending upon the tray. She lit up at the first taste of lemon cake in much the same way that Edwin had when Sir Robert entered the room.
“Robin,” Edwin said. “Have I forgotten a meeting?”
“No, no. But the Office received a letter that we want your eyes on, sooner rather than later, and—I had a vision.”
Edwin’s mouth went worried, which seemed odd. Having visions was what Sir Robert did, as far as Alan knew.
“When?”
“Perhaps two hours ago, before the briefing with Knox.” Sir Robert settled himself next to Edwin and reached for a muffin. To Alan he said, “I don’t know if anyone’s told you this part, but I’m under blood-oath to report my visions to the Assembly, in exchange for Walter Courcey leaving myself and my household alone. When I’m having plenty of them, I can be selective. But I hadn’t had one for a while, so when this one hit, it was the only one I could tell them about.”
“What was it?” asked Edwin.
Hesitation didn’t sit well on Sir Robert’s affable face. He glanced around the room. “I was hoping Maudie would be here. It was her. She was standing in a graveyard, looking down at a grave.”
Edwin made a small movement as if stopping himself from reaching out. He and Sir Robert exchanged a look dense with uneasy emotion. Alan felt uncomfortable all over again. He was an interloper in whatever was happening here.
Violet set her teacup in her saucer with a deliberate noise. “What was Maud wearing?”
“Pardon?” Sir Robert tore his eyes away from Edwin. “Er—a coat. The pale blue one. And her blue-and-white hat.”
“Not in mourning, then,” said Violet.
Sir Robert’s posture relaxed and he remembered the muffin in his hand. Now it was Violet and Miss Morrissey’s turn to exchange a look.
Miss Morrissey said, “And I assume Knox didn’t think to question you about something as frivolous as her clothes either, did he? Good. Let them assume the worst from it if they wish.”
“You mentioned a letter,” said Edwin. Sir Robert wiped butter from his fingers before opening his briefcase and pulling out a stamped and opened envelope, which he handed to Edwin.
At first glance of the handwriting Edwin made a fastidious face. “The Grimm?”
“I know. Read it,” said Miss Morrissey.
“Aloud,” said Violet pointedly.
Edwin did so.
You know really if you’re given a gift the least you could do is Not be careless of it
More than half a century of peace since that last little snarl in the tapestry and now everything’s MOVING again the paths are lying full like floods weak like drought You were supposed to be the Leaders and you’re letting it all go to waste
But that’s the least of it the dawn’s borrowed gifts won’t help past dusk you need your own stars for that and indeed all you can get with the Midnight that’s coming I told you and the Song Told You and I’m telling you again
Years on years you’ve been losing sight of the stars in favour of looking down at your own hands well there’s no point in a cradle with Nothing to put in it is there
yours the Grimm of Gloucester
P.S.
look I took My Own self My Own bones to that church in the North and if YOU don’t know where the silver is now YOU have a problem we ALL have a problem or soon will
Edwin’s voice changed on the word church, and his eyes were wide as he finished.
“Yes,” said Sir Robert grimly. “Makes you think we should be paying attention to the rest of the nonsense, doesn’t it? And you know I’ve no hope of deciphering it, but…”
Something of importance was happening and Alan had no bloody idea what. He did remember that the Forsythia Club had hidden the silver of the Last Contract in a church in North Yorkshire—so, someone else knew about that? And was writing to say that they knew?
And—“Stars?” Alan said, looking at Violet.
“What?” said Edwin.
“You were singing something like that,” said Alan. “Stars and dusk. The orrery.”
Violet’s eyes widened. “Yes. It’s something like a nursery rhyme—any English magician knows it.”
“Man’s marvellous light,” said Sir Robert. “Edwin, you said it was by—Dumas? Something?”
“Dufay,” said Edwin in his teaching voice. “Alfred Dufay. The song told you. Blast, I hate riddles.”