Chapter 11

MAY 17TH IN THE MAIN TRELLECH LIbrARY

T hessaly was utterly immersed in what she was doing. That was turning out to be a problem. She was up on the top of one of the small rolling sets of steps in Trellech’s main library, in one bay far to the back of the main reading room. She had a couple of books already waiting on the table in the middle of the bay, along with her gloves. She was trying to hunt down at least two more.

Magistra North had recommended additional reading before Monday, but she hadn’t had a complete reference for the chapter she remembered. It was in one of the books by Hezekiah Applebloom. There was an entire row of them, and many of the chapter titles were not as illuminating as to the contents as they ought to be.

That was the problem with illusionists all over. They - Thessaly included - enjoyed playing with appearances.

Now she reached for the next volume, then overreached. If she’d been in duelling gear, it wouldn’t have been a problem. Today, she was in entirely proper skirts and bustle and shoes without nearly as much grip as might be sensible. She wobbled. Then there was a hand under her elbow, another at her back, steadying her. It felt comfortable and secure from the first touch.

“Pardon, Mistress.” The voice below her and to her left was oddly familiar, but not one she knew immediately. Someone she’d gone to school with, maybe. Thessaly used that bit of stability to reach for the book she’d actually wanted, then cleared her throat.

“Thank you. May I come down now?” The hand at her back moved away, until she couldn’t feel the pressure, though the one under her elbow didn’t do the same. She retreated backwards down the steps, making sure her feet were solidly under her before she looked to see who had helped her. Then she blinked several times. “Oh! Master Deschamps. A pleasure to see you again.” She did her best to make it sound warm. Thessaly hadn’t expected him, not here, but she was in fact pleased to see him, if also a trifle confused.

He flushed, just slightly, then tipped his hat to her. “Mistress Lytton-Powell. I am glad to lend my assistance. Or to do so again, if there is another book you would like fetched. I hope you are well?”

“I am. Though I was waiting for you to call. It has been four weeks, after all. I had several thoughts about your question about the lapis lazuli, and I have done some preliminary experiments. Though of course, it depends a bit on the foundational materials you had in mind - cloth versus stone, and so on. And naturally, the duration you were hoping for.”

Master Deschamps ducked his chin. “Mistress.” He then closed his mouth, as if unsure how to go on. “I am perhaps wary of your position. Considering a number of factors.”

Thessaly took a step back to better consider him. And to better arrange her skirts, so everything fell into place. Her gloves were off. It was difficult to thumb through pages with them on, and she couldn’t fix that now. Besides, they were in a library, and libraries had their own rules of etiquette within Albion. He also took a step back, bowing slightly, as if that would ease whatever uncertainty he felt.

“My betrothal.” Thessaly tilted her head, naming what she was sure was the problem. “I can assure you, Childeric is nowhere near. A library is not particularly his natural habitat. He is off having a pleasant ride with some of his friends, I believe. And his parents are at Arundel. I have no chaperone and do not need one - we are in a library, of course, a respectable location. I am betrothed, not immured in a tall tower with no access to the outer world.”

“But you are, Mistress, betrothed to the son of a powerful family, who are known to...” His voice trailed off. But really, there wasn’t an entirely polite way to finish that sentence.

“Who are known to hold grudges. This is not worth a grudge. And I am the daughter of two other powerful families. But again, not immured in a tower. Father wouldn’t dare. Besides, Aunt Metaia would have argued him out of it long since.” That was true, too. Father was firm about how things were done, a proper Victorian father, but he deferred to Aunt Metaia - and to Mama, honestly - on matters of magic and manners. Especially when they overlapped, as in this case.

“You and I know that we have had conversation - twice now, and the first was most pleasant. But there is the reality and the seeming, and we both know that some people confuse the one for the other.” He gestured for a moment at the books. “That is, in fact, your art.”

Thessaly slowly inclined her head. “That is accurate enough. Are you worried? I would not keep you if you are truly concerned, though I am grateful for your helpful hand. Also, I am enjoying the conversation.” The last month had brought home to her how much she’d enjoyed their first conversation. She’d felt free to express herself there, not contained and limited. He’d listened in a way she found enticing. It certainly wasn’t how she felt around Childeric or Sigbert or their family.

He seemed to think she was assuming it’d be an indiscretion. Or, more reasonably, that the Fortiers might see it as one. It made sense, and yet it didn’t, and that was puzzling and confusing her.

She had wondered - especially after that conversation with Aunt Metaia a fortnight ago - about the different ways her life might have gone. Or might go. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have options and choices and possibilities. Thessaly knew she would do her duty by Childeric, by the agreements. But while he could be exceedingly charming and flattering, nothing about how he did that made her heart beat a little faster. None of it provoked even as much reaction in her body as a good duel, the combination of challenge and physicality and how one matched with the other person.

It made this conversation more complicated, feeling something she hadn’t felt before. This wasn’t an assignation, of course it wasn’t. But even if it were - which it wasn’t - she had options. She knew her agreements with Childeric thoroughly and precisely. And now, they came rushing back.

Father and Aunt Metaia and three specialists in ritual language and oaths had gone over it on her side of things. She could spend her time where she chose, even bed who she chose, so long as there were due precautions against pregnancy outside her marriage. It would be better to avoid the more delicately risky forms of bedding until she’d had at least one child. But there were options there. Aunt Metaia had talked through some of them and made it clear she’d share more details or suggest specialists if Thessaly had any interest.

The other way round, well, that was a different question. Thessaly was fairly sure Childeric was bedding someone, though she had not exerted herself to find out who or how long it had been going on. Not yet. All the signs she had seen suggested nothing that put her at risk. More to the point, both Mama and Aunt Metaia had agreed with that analysis. They both had much more experience spotting that sort of thing in the wild, a Mistress who thought to displace the legitimate wife, or wife-to-be. Not that she’d say that here and now.

Thessaly expected Childeric would be much the same in bed as he was in the other areas of his life. Skilled and deft enough, because he’d consider a lack of skill to be a failure. But he’d be far more about what he got out of the experience than what she did. And if she wanted in-depth conversation or magical debate, she would have to find it for herself, and elsewhere. Possibly with his mother or aunt, but that was more delicate than finding it among people her own age.

She could - and planned to - use her social influence to cultivate that sort of discussion. It would not only keep her from utter boredom - a key consideration - but it would also let her support and encourage people who could use it. Aunt Metaia did that. Mama did it, though in a more limited way, seeing as there was less money on Father’s side of things, and thus less independence.

But she couldn’t deny, now she’d thought a bit more, that she liked it when this man, Vitus, the one in front of her, touched her. She liked how his magic felt, though she didn’t have the language to describe it. There was an openness, a sureness, a comfort with himself that was appealing, even before she considered anything else. And she couldn’t deny that maybe she was responding to that.

Still, they were back at the fact this was a library. She certainly would not suggest anything improper here and now. Thessaly had certainly read her share of romantic tales, but she wasn’t actually sure how one proceeded from a bit of fantasy to something real, anyway. If she were inclined, it would require more study.

The silence grew. He was the one making this odd and awkward. It was all entirely him. Finally, she raised an eyebrow at Master Deschamps, as pointedly as she could manage. He cleared his throat. “I do not wish to make enemies. Not when I am still establishing myself.” There was a tiny pause, then he added, “Or after.”

“Well, no. You are sensible. And forward-thinking, not inclined to let today’s choices destroy tomorrow’s. But will you trust me, that a conversation will not damage anything? And that I am interested in what you are working on, besides the question of the lapis lazuli illusion.” She glanced around. “Do you have a few minutes? Perhaps we might sit and talk for a little while. Enough that you will be reassured that no member of the Fortier family is going to emerge from the shelves like an avenging ghost.”

His mouth opened and then closed again. She could see him swallow. “If you insist, Mistress. May I get your chair?” The thing of it was, he had fine manners. They weren’t the sort that was entirely about the show of it, or even the show of his magic. They were practical, like Aunt Metaia when she was at home. She set the two books in her hand down on the desk in the library bay while he came around to pull out a chair. Thessaly arranged herself with a little shift of her weight and magic so the bustle would not bulge in awkward ways. She let herself sink down to sit on the front half of the chair precisely as she’d been taught. Not that either bustle or corset really permitted much else.

After a moment’s hesitation, he sat down at the short end of the table, at an angle to her, but without the table between them. She kept her feet tucked under her chair, her skirts falling around them. She was sure that brushing his ankle or foot would startle him into fleeing.

“There. And thank you, you know just how to be a help. Far too many people are about form over function.” She set her hands on the table, considered their lack of gloves again, and decided to ignore it. Besides, at least two-thirds of the reason for gloves had to do with magical interference. She was confident both in her own ability to spot that in this setting and the fact Master Deschamps seemed exceedingly unlikely to try something of the kind. “What brought you here this afternoon?”

“Oh. Erm.” He cleared his throat. “Mistress Lytton-Powell, I was thinking about a question that Niobe - Magistra Hall - posed to me. About which stones take which types of enchantments most elegantly. A number of stones can be made to suit, but the question of which ones make it...” He looked up, searching for words, “Smooth. To purpose. Comfortably.” He looked back at her, meeting her eyes deliberately.

There now, he was actually engaging. That was excellent. “Do call me Thessaly, please. Otherwise, we shall be forever making the simplest comments.” Her double-barrelled surname just made that worse. “I don’t know the materia nearly as well as you must, but, oh, something like amber or perhaps citrine for light? Or I saw a piece done with pearls that tended toward a glow, that shimmer of something beautiful and perfect.”

“As you wish. Thessaly. And I am Vitus, then, please.” Then he was nodding enthusiastically. “Just so, yes. Though pearls are rather tricky to work with. Any sort of inscription into the nacre is likely to damage the pearl and cause it to flake and destroy itself over time. In that case, the enchantments lie in the entire structure. They might be anchored by talismanic pieces for a central focal bead, or perhaps in metal spacer beads or something of the kind.”

“I’m sure that complicates the design as well, magically.” Thessaly offered. “Competing influences, something of the kind? I was looking for an article about something related, about how many layers of illusion or enchantment work are practical before you begin to have contradictions. Or that is the idea, anyway. I’ve not read the chapter yet.”

Within minutes, she’d pulled the books over, thumbing through to find what she was looking for. A minute or two after that, his hand brushed hers, as they were peering at the page together, until he jerked his hand back. “Pardon.”

“I did not mind.” That had come out entirely too prim. “I hope we might become friends, even if you are nervous about it right now. In due course. More meetings in the library or perhaps a tea shop or some other suitable place.”

The thing of it was, she enjoyed his touch, the simplicity of it, the way he didn’t presume to reach for more. This still wasn’t an assignation, and she did not want to make things difficult again, but now she was wondering about what it would be like to have one. With him, in specific. She couldn’t remotely tell him. He’d bolt into the street. And if there were signals you gave to hint at willingness, well, that had not been included in any of Thessaly’s education.

Vitus withdrew his hand carefully, folding it into his lap. “I enjoy your conversation a great deal.” He wasn’t quite looking at her now, as if he couldn’t speak and talk at the same time. “And your ideas fit well with mine. The expansion of what I’d like to do, I mean. I - erm.” The sentence tumbled down into a pile of innuendo that she was fairly sure he hadn’t actually intended. He did not seem a man of that sort. But she did like his company, in ways she wasn’t sure how to describe. Maybe it was just that he listened as much as he talked, and that was decidedly novel at the moment.

“Then we will have to see when we might find time again. Do come round to Magistra North’s when you get a chance. Or write me there, and we can make a proper appointment, if that would reassure you. She’s quite interested in the question herself, actually, and she might have some useful references for you. Or connections.” There, she could lay that lure out. Magistra North had in fact mentioned that she was always on the look out for suitable talisman makers who could work to her standards. His apprenticeship with Magistra Hall was promising that way. Then, before she could say much more, they heard the bells.

“Oh, I beg pardon. I need to get home. I promised to escort my mother to something.” Vitus pushed back, then offered a bow. “Again, yes. I will write and find a time. Until then, Mistress - Thessaly.” Before she could do more than smile and nod, he was gone, and she was left looking after him. Once she was sure he was not returning, she stood again, and went back to hunting up the books she wanted.

She could not get the thought of him out of her mind. Vitus Deschamps did not have Childeric’s classic handsomeness, but he was more than pleasant to look at. He leaned forward, letting his interest show, not an aristocrat’s disdain, and that was appealing. And he’d listened to her. He hadn’t interrupted; he hadn’t seemed bored at all. By the time she set the books she didn’t need on the cart to be reshelved, she’d begun to wonder what it would be like to have him hold her hand. Or perhaps dance.

Certainly, she didn’t know any detail that would make him unsuitable for a private assignation. Vitus had been trained to discretion, that was part of his work. He came from a family known for probity and good sense, given his father’s work. He was from the crafting class, but that didn’t matter since they wouldn’t be discussing a marriage. It came down to whether she was interested, whether he was interested, and whether they could sort out something mutually agreeable.

Perhaps - no, for certain - she’d also figure out how to study up on how one might delicately suggest an interest. If she could bring herself to ask Aunt Metaia, maybe that would help. She certainly couldn’t ask Mama. Even if she decided she wasn’t interested in Vitus, just the idea of the option, it would be good to know for the future.