A Little Knowledge (3 page)

“I’m not worried,” Max said as Rupert went back into the main office space. He was incapable of any emotion.

“You can see so much from here,” Kay said to Rupert. “Office is a bit on the empty side, though.”

“That’s one of the first things I need your help with,” Rupert said, going to stand next to her. “We don’t need much to start off with—a few desks, chairs…computers….A kettle, tea, and coffee are priority.”

“Okay, give me a company card and I’ll get it sorted.”

“Oh. Yeah…” Rupert patted his pockets. “Only got cash.”

“I saw something in the paper on the way here, actually,” Kay said and jogged back to her backpack. She returned with a local paper. “Crap crossword. I did it in less than five minutes. But it’s only the local rag, I suppose.”

She sat on the floor and began thumbing through the pages as images of a toilet brush appeared in Max’s mind. The gargoyle was getting bored. That was never a good thing.

“Here we go. A local office is closing down and auctioning off all their stuff this afternoon. We could probably get most of what we need in one go.”

Rupert shrugged. “Whatever you think is best. You’re office manager.”

“I am? You realise we haven’t had the interview yet?”

“Interview? Oh, no need for that. You’re hired.”

“For what, exactly?”

Rupert grinned. “Kitting out the office first. Then I’ll tell you about the rest once we can make a cuppa.”

“Kettles are on sale at the shop down the road,” Kay said, flipping over a page to point to an advert. “What do you think, Max? Like the look of that one?”

He looked at the picture she was pointing at and nodded, even though he felt nothing about the kettles at all. Then a picture above the advert caught his eye, one of a collection of workers standing in front of a large brick chimney in the courtyard of a foundry that Max recognised, taken at the turn of the century. The chimney looked dark grey in the photograph, but Max knew the bricks had been a deep red, and he could even recall the smell of the smoke which used to sink down into the courtyard on cold, still days. The men were dressed in their working clothes, with grubby shirts and neckerchiefs worn to soak up the grime and sweat. All were smiling for the camera, all faded into the background save one.

Max looked into the eyes of his father, standing in the middle of the group, thumbs tucked into his belt loops and looking very happy. There were the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes that used to gather the dirt from the foundry over his shift, until it looked like they’d been drawn on with a pencil by the time he returned home. He’d disappeared, along with several of his co-workers, when Max was ten years old.

All Max could recall about the disappearance was looking for his father near the foundry, hoping to find him and bring him home. Max knew that an Arbiter had found him as he searched for his dad and took him to the Chapter but he couldn’t remember why. Nor could he recall whether the reason his father went missing was the same reason why the Arbiter thought he—an innocent ten-year-old boy—should be taken. Why could he remember the smell of the smoke from that chimney, but not the night his mundane life ended and his journey to becoming an Arbiter began?

A crash from the bathroom made Kay yelp. “Is someone else here?”

“Just a cleaner,” Rupert said. “Let’s get some food and then go to the auction. They’ll be gone by the time we get back. Right, Max?”

Max pulled his gaze from the photograph. “Yes, sir.” He scanned the article’s title.
Bath’s Troubled History and the Missing Rebels of Yesteryear
. “I may not be here when you get back. I need to look into something.” He picked up the newspaper. “May I keep this, Miss Hyde?” When she nodded he folded it up and tucked it into the inside pocket of his overcoat. Max had never discovered what happened to his father, nor why the Arbiter was there that night. Before seeing that photo it hadn’t even occurred to him that there were questions he wanted to ask. Now that there were, it was time to find some answers.

Will couldn’t help thinking that his life would have been so much easier if he’d been married to someone as politically astute as Margritte. What he had thought would be a short briefing on how Cathy should present the idea of the Ladies’ Court had turned into an argument, when all he was trying to do was help her avoid conflict.

When he’d discussed the idea with Margritte, a Ladies’ Court had seemed an obvious way forward, something progressive enough to channel Cathy’s energy and keep her more strident behaviour away from the attention of the gentlemen of the court. The way Cathy talked about it now, anyone would think it was some patriarchal conspiracy to undermine…something or other. He’d lost track.

Amazingly, he was starting to see Margritte as a valued friend—even though less than a month before she’d sought his destruction. Will didn’t mind helping her to stay safe—far from it. He felt it was his duty now and part of his penance for killing her husband. Though he still lived with the guilt, he couldn’t dwell on the past. The strange, infuriating, and spirited woman he’d fallen in love with was making more than enough trouble to keep him occupied.

Cathy wanted too much too soon and refused to be patient. Will tried to remember that she was under the influence of Poppy’s magic, that damned third wish that she’d made before they’d married. It was supposedly a wish for her to reach her true potential, but ever since he’d learned Poppy was convinced it would be destructive, the thought of it had haunted Will. Surely Poppy’s magic was driving her to this recklessness? He was of a mind to mention it to Lord Iris should it worsen. Perhaps he could lift it from her. Not that she’d want that. And even if he could bring himself to ask that Lord Iron for help, he knew the magic in their wedding ring and the curse his family had put on her would be broken too. Unacceptable. He needed a more subtle solution than that blundering fool.

“Darling,” Will said, leaning forwards to take her hands as she paused for breath. “I understand that you have doubts. But surely you agree that a Ladies’ Court would at least be a step towards more significant change?” He didn’t say it was the only step he was willing to allow for now.

By the time they arrived, she seemed to be ready to make the announcement in the way he’d recommended.

Will stroked the back of Cathy’s gloved hand as the carriage passed through the outer gates of the Tower. She was always more highly strung before any meeting of the Londinium Court, behaving more like a prisoner heading for the gallows.

For him, every visit to the Tower was invigorating. His ancestor—his namesake—had ruled over the mundanes from the anchor property, the first reflected into the Nether by Lord Iris, from which the rest of Londinium grew. The Irises were in ascendance, memories of the Rosa rule that had lasted for hundreds of years were fading fast, and the name of
William
Reticulata-Iris meant something at last.

To think, only a few months ago he’d been drinking cocktails on a Mediterranean beach, dreading his return home. The Grand Tour had given him a taste of freedom and life without his father breathing down his neck, watching for imperfection. In Mundanus he’d been a wealthy playboy, dawdling from place to place with his best friend, enjoying everything life under that gloriously blue sky had to offer. He’d made the most of it, knowing that he would have to fight for every scrap of pleasure once he was back in the Nether. As a mere second son, nothing would be handed to him on a plate. He was nothing but a spare to the heir of the Aquae Sulis Irises. A handsome boy who hadn’t drawn anyone’s attention before he’d left for his Grand Tour.

All his life, his brother Nathaniel had told him he’d never amount to anything, and his sister Imogen had seen him as nothing more than a child to torment. Will couldn’t help but smile to himself. Everyone had underestimated him, from the Rosas to the Tulipas, and now he was Duke of Londinium. He was never going to let anyone take this from him.

The way the guards outside the entrance to the Tower straightened as the carriage pulled up, how the page ran to lower the step and open the door, how they all bowed when he emerged—all the tiny things drove home the fact that he was more than anyone had ever thought he would be. Will loved the way his arrival cast a ripple ahead of him, from the way the pages announced his presence with loud voices up each level of the Tower, to the sound of the residents of Londinium hurrying into the main chamber to ready themselves for his and Cathy’s entrance.

But none of it was as satisfying as the hush that descended over the Court after their names were announced at the door by the Head Yeoman, and the way all of the residents and guests in the city bowed and curtsied as he and Cathy walked to the thrones. It wasn’t long ago that he’d been seeking to impress them. Now all they wanted was to impress him.

There were none in the Court that gave him serious concern. All could see which way the wind was blowing and how it was wiser to support him than grumble. Besides, no one else was even close to being strong enough to take the throne from him—aside from the Viola, perhaps.

Bertrand Persificola-Viola, free of the social disaster of an older brother now that Freddy was dead, was proving to be every bit the ally he had hoped for. Will had worked hard to keep Bertrand happy, and to reassure him that the Duchess had no plans to undermine his authority over his wife or any other man’s over theirs. It was clear that Bertrand was unimpressed by her, though. One comment from a new Duchess in unusual circumstances could be overlooked, but a second would be seen as a sign of a husband too weak to control her.

Despite the tense journey there, Cathy played her part well whilst the main business of the Court was carried out. Announcements given by Will and his Marquis, Tom Rhoeas-Papaver, were met with quiet approval. He and Tom had spent that afternoon making sure that only the most innocuous matters would be discussed that evening. Tom had counselled him to not let Cathy speak at the Court, but admitted how hard that would be to enforce without the use of offensive Charms. “Strange that she be so keen to talk now she’s Duchess,” he’d said in Will’s study. “In the past you could barely get her to string a sentence together in front of other people.”

“Life in Mundanus changed her,” Will had said.

Tom paused at the door then, his eyes shadowed by a frown. “It seems so.”

Will felt sorry for Tom. When he should have been travelling the world, tasting the delights of Mundanus before establishing his own family, Tom had been desperately hunting for his runaway sister. Whilst Will had been rolling in the surf with his Sicilian lover, Tom had been going from town to town, casting Seeker Charms and fearing that Cathy was dead. What a burden he’d shouldered, only to be married off to an American Poppy before he’d had a taste of real freedom. Will supposed the Papavers needed the money for Cathy’s dowry—and perhaps to pay for all the Charms Tom had used to find Cathy—and as Tom’s hunt had aged him just enough for marriage, it was deemed unnecessary to give him a Grand Tour.

At least he was proving himself to be a capable Marquis. What Tom lacked in worldliness he made up for in bookish leanings, and he had a remarkable memory for details. His wife, Lucy, was nice enough too, and mercifully had excellent social skills with a warmth that counterbalanced Tom’s stiff aloofness. Even though they were all young, Will felt sure he could make this Dukedom work. He had to. His Patroon, Sir Iris, had made it very clear that the family expected him to hold Londinium indefinitely. He had every intention of doing so.

Tom was finishing his summary of business and the room felt calm. Will looked at Cathy, who was staring down at her gloves intently. He could tell she was shaking from the way her earrings sparkled, catching the sprite light with each tremble. She was wearing a new gown, one that looked different but he couldn’t work out exactly how. He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze and she looked at him, her eyes bright blue against the flush of her cheeks.

“Just remember what we discussed in the carriage,” Will whispered to her. “And when it’s done, we’ll return home and celebrate.”

A flicker of concern crossed her features, as if she feared something, and then Tom announced that the Duchess was to speak.

Will studied the men’s faces in the crowd as she stood. Most were too socially skilled and intelligent to betray any doubts about the Duchess being permitted to address the Court again. One of the Buttercups rolled his eyes at a Wisteria who failed to hide a smile behind a handkerchief before Will noticed it. When the Wisteria noticed his attention on him, any sign of disrespect vanished from his features and he was a model attentive listener.

Cathy cleared her throat. “My husband and I have been in close discussion regarding the Court of Londinium,” she began. Good, thought Will, she remembered the opening line signalling to the gentlemen that she was about to say something he endorsed. Even that line alone had been something she’d resisted. “And we have agreed that the city could benefit from a formal court for the daughters and wives of Londinium. As Duchess, I plan to establish this new salon as a space where women of this city can come together to discuss the issues of the day…” she paused and Will tensed, fearing she was about to go off-script. “…in an…effort to keep conversations with our husbands and fathers free of any idle speculation and questions.”

Will breathed out. Good. It wasn’t how she, Margritte, or any of the others saw the court, but the careful phrasing was designed to nip any male fears in the bud. As he had told Cathy repeatedly in the carriage, it didn’t matter whether it was the spirit of the exercise or not. What mattered was not getting anyone’s backs up before she had a chance to establish it. Once it existed, she could mould it into something of merit.

Will scanned the room. The women looked surprised and uncertain, as did the majority of their husbands.

“Has this ever been done before, your Grace?” one of the Wisterias asked from the back of the room.

“No. It would be a first,” Cathy replied. “Londinium should lead the way in all things and we’re already a city that favours debate and the more intellectual arts.”