Page 32 of Claiming the Tower (Council Mysteries #1)
Tuesday afternoon at Bourne’s in Trellech
H ereswith waited for the woman who’d escorted her to the upstairs hallway. There were a row of small rooms along here, some with views of the street, designed for private conversations. The workrooms, with less need for windows, were along the back, nearer the tangle of service streets and mews.
The attendant knocked once on the central door, one of the more prestigious spaces.
This was one of the smaller private rooms, decorated in oxblood and deep blue, with two chairs set out.
They were angled toward each other, facing the window.
For a moment, the angle of the light didn’t seem quite right.
Then Hereswith realised there was a charm, filtering it, and avoiding the afternoon angle shining in their eyes.
That was not an ordinary service, even here at Bourne’s.
Magistra Ventry was seated in the far chair, wearing her usual unrelieved black, though this one shaded a little towards a green-black.
She nodded just once as Hereswith came in.
“Thank you, Maisie. We have everything we need.” There was a tea cart, not the Hereswith would so much as gesture toward it without encouragement.
Not in this case, in this room, or in this company.
She heard the click of the door behind her and then spoke as clearly as she could. “I appreciate your time, Magistra Ventry.”
“I appreciate that you are a woman who is not slow on the uptake. Your note came just about when I expected it might, given what I knew of your schedule and situation.” The older woman arched one eyebrow. “If you’d pour a cup of tea for me— just lemon, thank you. Whatever you like for yourself.”
The tea in the pot was first-rate, Hereswith could tell that immediately, and already had some lemon in it, she thought.
She poured a cup, adding a slice of lemon, then brought it over with no hint of a spill, before pouring her own.
It wasn’t until she was seated again that she looked up to see what Magistra Ventry would do next.
“You had obligations on Friday and Saturday. I would think less of you if you had not taken the time to discuss with relevant parties.” Magistra Ventry said it with an entirely neutral voice.
Hereswith considered, taking a sip of her tea— excellent, yes, a clarity of taste that was a pleasure and also underlining the conversation as a whole.
It was as deliberately chosen as the room and the time.
Then she looked up. “And to do a bit of research, Magistra Ventry.” It was why she appreciated this conversation being today.
She’d been able to do a fair bit of it yesterday afternoon.
That earned her a snort of approval. “Just so. Indulge my curiosity, if you would. Who have you spoken with about that letter?”
It was a telling question, of course. And yet, Hereswith had come here seeking help, a guide in uncharted lands.
She had known full well that coming here would mean giving up information.
It was like one of the Fatae tales, and surely Magistra Ventry knew how those went even better than Hereswith did.
She took a breath, setting her teacup down.
“First, I spoke with Marcus Everett, my partner in the diplomatic work. He was the one that brought your letter to me. And therefore he was in the room when I read it.”
“While I am certain you are adept at holding your expression in a number of situations, perhaps not that one.” It had a warmer note that in others, Hereswith would have identified as teasing. She was not at all sure she dared assume that here, or wanted to.
“Just so, Magistra.” She inclined her head again.
“We had a number of obligations until late on Saturday. Saturday evening, when I returned home, I spoke with a friend, currently living with us as companion to my father. And then, on Sunday, with Papa. Later that evening, my brothers and their wives came for supper. I made my plans clear to them.”
“Informing them, I gather, your brothers. But wanting the backing of your father and friend.” Magistra Ventry’s gaze shifted. “And Master Everett.”
“Yes. Especially since I do not— yet— have a full understanding of the preparation required. Whatever else, I suspect it will require Marcus to take on additional obligations for ongoing work, and he deserved a chance to raise an objection.”
“You work well with him?” The question sounded idle on the surface, Magistra Ventry was reaching for her cup again. It was not remotely idle.
“Why do you ask, Magistra?” Hereswith decided it was time to parry that, politely. “There are a number of possible ways I might answer that.”
There was a substantial silence, the sort that challenged Hereswith to speak first. On the other hand, she had trained for exactly this sort of gap, and practised it, as assiduously as a duellist trained their footwork.
It stretched on for two minutes— Hereswith was counting the faint ticks of the clock over the fireplace behind her.
“You understand, of course, that the Council has public faces and private ones.”
“People generally do. Not just one face, of course.” Hereswith acknowledged the plural deliberately.
“Just so. I am curious about how you build alliances.” Magistra Ventry set her cup and saucer down, then leaned back in her chair.
Now, she was bringing all that focus to bear on Hereswith.
And she was doing it deliberately, as she had not done until this point in the conversation.
It was obvious that she used it like a blade.
Or a mirror, perhaps. A number of the minor references Hereswith had found had described a curious reflecting quality.
She hadn’t had time to chase down whether that was a turn of phrase used once and borrowed ever since, or whether it had come from multiple sources and speakers independently.
At the moment, she didn’t care. All that intensity was right in front of her, and she had to rise to the challenge and respond as best she could.
“The thing of it is, Magistra, that not all people are allies. When they are, they may not be the same sort of ally. People are not interchangeable, their causes are not, their priorities and preferences certainly are not.”
Before she could be prodded, Hereswith went on.
“Marcus and I suit each other well as partners. There are tasks that must, in the Foreign Office, fall to him, because he is male and they respect that. There are tasks that must fall to me— morning calls and making the right show of fuss about decorations and floral arrangements and the fads of the moment. But there are tasks we divide as suits us. He has an eye for particular types of research. I do others. Most events have both of our work, in about equal measure, including discussing after. We hear different things, or the same thing put in different ways, and that is always informative.”
“Does he reliably give you credit where it is due?”
“As he can. Not in the Foreign Office, again. But within the Ministry, yes.” Hereswith considered how to say the next part.
“I am limited, however, in what additional responsibility I might take on. I cannot rise further in the non-magical world than being his hostess, not in public. If I sought more influence in our Ministry, I would of necessity be forced to give up the public face. Until this year, I could not decide.”
“What changed then?”
“This war in the Crimea. And more than the war— the world will keep having wars, it is an inescapable fact of humanity, it seems. The way it has been handled, negotiated, and put in to play is abysmal. I am finding my patience is less, day by day, for badly made plans. Or, in some cases, an entire lack of a plan.” Hereswith met Magistra Ventry’s gaze.
“Obviously, I do not expect that the Council is less full of human frailty. But it might at least be a different arena and one where I might act more directly to resolve the problems before me.”
Something in that was the right note. Magistra Ventry nodded sharply. “You may call me Blanch. If you do so in public, it will make certain things visible, and I will understand if you do not.”
“As you wish. Blanch. Please call me Hereswith.” That was an easy enough decision, given the points made so far.
Magistra Ventry— Blanch— hesitated, the sort of weighty hesitation that indicated a change in topic. “That was not the only reason, yes? What have your dreams been like recently?”
That was an absurdly intimate question, and yet Hereswith understood why it had been asked.
“My waking dreams, I see something better. Seeing the world to come, the one we could have if we just knew how to reach for it.” Hereswith flicked her fingers.
“I was at the Crystal Palace in London last month. There are empires there that rose and fell thousands of years ago. Fragments of the world. And there is, in that same space, looking forward to what is possible. Forming it out of what seems impossible.”
“And?” Just the one word, like a drumbeat.
“I keep thinking of Troy burning. Of Cassandra, doing her utmost to warn people of what would come, and cursed to be unheard. I do not think I bear that curse. People do, from time to time, listen to me.” She inclined her head to Blanch, as someone who did.
“Are we on a road that leads to that end? Or could we find another one?”
“Ah.” Blanch shifted, just slightly, in her seat, no longer a statue but a human reacting to the question. “There are factions within the Council, of course. We do not see the same concerns, or prioritise them the same way.”
“The Council Members are human, yes. That is to be expected. But within your scope, there is a chance for action. For persuasion. For those individual perspectives to bring new ideas to solve emerging problems. Twenty others is a far more manageable number to debate with than hundreds or thousands across nations.”