“Eventually. I’ve missed morning chapel, though—so either I’m already in trouble, or they think I’m at the hospital with Sally. Either way, it can wait.”
The faculty row stood on the opposite side of campus from the main gate. Audrey strode confidently through the grounds. I tried to emulate her, but felt terribly exposed. We were the only women in sight—elsewhere there must be secretaries, maids, others who filled the gaps left open by the school’s aristocracy, but this morning the quads were full of faculty and students, and of scattered handymen clearing paths through the snow. Some of the boys whistled or called out, and Audrey nodded regally as if they had knelt before her. The difference in our dress made me even more self-conscious: Audrey all fashion in her knee-length blue skirt and a hat that was mostly an excuse for its feather, me in my sedate mourning dress that met neither my own standards nor those of the folk around me. I am a Marsh, I thought, and tried to move like a queen rather than like prey.
As promised, we saw no sign of intruders either in the depths of campus or at the entrance. I wished I could believe they’d stay away. From the gate, we followed the winding path that shadowed the fence posts. Well-tended near the facades of the History and Biology departments, elsewhere it grew wild with pine and winter-bare bramble. In these areas the crowd thinned, and those who remained kept their heads down.
“Here we are,” said Audrey. We abandoned the main path for a little curve hidden by juniper hedges. A fountain nestled in their arch: a long-dry mermaid spilled nothing from her conch shell. Ivy half-drowned her tail and splashed across her chest and shoulders. Someone had crowned her with a handwoven wreath of vines, long since turned brown.
“Meet Chastity,” Audrey said. She laughed. “People bring her offerings when they haven’t been living up to her name. See?” She waded the ivy-filled basin, held up a few coins, and tossed them back.
“Do people come here often?”
“Not on a Sunday morning. But she’s conveniently located on the way to and from the opportunity for sin.”
As promised, an oak spread over the mermaid’s nook. She was an old archpriest of a tree, full of twists and splits, bark rich with folds. One branch dipped low over a marble bench, and standing on tiptoe Audrey pulled herself up.
“It’s not dignified,” she called. “But it’s not a bad climb.”
I hadn’t climbed a tree in twenty years, and even then Caleb had been better. But my new-grown strength proved useful as I grasped the handholds Audrey showed me, and got my feet into the branch’s saddle. I grimaced as twigs tugged my skirt, but moved carefully and did not tear it. Audrey showed me where to place each step. Her route was well-practiced, and I watched carefully to mimic the little shifts of balance that passed beneath her notice.
From the ground Chastity had been a smooth-skinned and well-proportioned woman of the air, only her tail betraying her disinterest in admirers. From above, I could see that her thick marble hair grew from a scaled scalp, and tiny snakes twined within. One pointed ear poked above the tilted wreath of vines.
We crept to the central trunk. Here, where there might otherwise have been an awkward breach in the aerial passage, some thoughtful student had long ago nailed a wooden block as a much-needed foothold. The bark curved out around it; in another fifty years it would be only an indented scar. I clenched my fingers tightly above as I stepped from branch to block to branch again. Audrey dropped to all fours and peered cautiously over the fence. She pulled her head back and put a finger to her lips.
Over the whisper of wind I heard voices on the street beyond. Two voices, familiar: they’d made a strong impression while I was blindfolded. I shrunk away and clung to the damp bark. If I moved forward a little, I might be able to understand more clearly, but I was reluctant to take the risk. Words drifted up in isolation: “Doubt … ask … students … stupid to…” And then they passed beyond our overlook.
Audrey inched back. “We’d better leave off for now,” she murmured. “Normally Garrison Street is pretty deserted.”
Back on the ground, I did my best to brush off my skirt and blouse. Audrey picked a few pieces of wet bark from my hair.
“That was them,” I whispered. “George Barlow, and one of the soldiers who arrested us yesterday. Peters, I think.”
She dropped a dead leaf into the ivy, paused. “Did you hear what they were saying?”
“I couldn’t catch it. Something about students and stupidity.”
She snorted, and started for the fence. I grabbed her arm and drew her back. “Don’t, they’re dangerous. And if I couldn’t hear them, you won’t be able to.”
“How d’you know? I might have secret rock powers.” She pulled away—I didn’t hold tightly enough to stop her—and headed back toward the fence. It was thoroughly draped with ivy: someone on the other side might be able to see through, but only if they pressed close to look. I thought of what they might say, unheard, and went after her.
We followed the path, pausing as I tried to pick out voices across the sounds of wind and wildlife and the more distant babble of conversation within the campus grounds. After a couple of hundred feet I caught their cadences again. But off the path, the snow hid a crackling of dry leaves and twigs. Every time I tried to get closer, I rustled one thing or snapped another. Audrey moved lightly: she occasionally tested before putting her weight down, but more often picked the silent spots by eye and captured them in short, swift steps like a stalking heron. At last she crouched beside the curtain of vines. I watched anxiously, hearing the voices rise and fall. Their location seemed to change, and I thought that Barlow might be pacing.
At last the voices silenced, and Audrey made her way back. I wanted to demand a report as soon as she got close, but refrained. I beckoned her further inward, and we hurried to put distance between ourselves and the fence.
Once we were out of sight, I gave in to temptation. “Well?”
“Well.” She bounced on her toes, cheeks flushed. “Secret agents, unfortunately, turn out not to discuss specific plans on public streets.”
“I don’t think they’re ‘secret’ agents,” I said. “We’d all be better off if they tried to keep out of sight.”
“Whatever they are, they’re cryptic. They were arguing about whether it mattered if ‘they’ have ‘it,’ or whether ‘we’ need ‘it’ whether or not they have it. It sounded like they just walked out of the same discussion with the rest of their group.”
“Ah.”
“Ah? You know what they’re talking about?”